


The Eighth Year

by black_lodge



Series: The Eighth Year [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Depression, Existential Crisis, F/M, HP: EWE, Magic, Masturbation, May/December Relationship, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_lodge/pseuds/black_lodge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Snape at the mercy of the Wizengamot, Hermione can’t rest until he’s free. But that freedom comes at a price: his memories, and her secrets. And Hermione has far too many secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quick and the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wondrous Lavinia Lavender, my comrade-in-arms and partner-in-crime for over a decade.

Fred Weasley was buried late on a Wednesday afternoon in the orchard at the Burrow, in the grove where the siblings often played pick-up games of Quidditch when their holidays permitted. It was early May and the apple trees were in full bloom, white blossoms stained pink on the undersides and freckled with golden pollen. The heat of the sun on thousands of petals filled the air with an dizzyingly sweet fragrance. But the silence of the mourners was deafening. For the longest time, all that could be heard was the sound of fat, lazy bees humming around the flowers and Mrs. Weasley sobbing.

After assembling in the garden behind the house, the crowd had filed into the grove single-file, led by Fred’s immediate family, followed by Harry, Hermione, Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Lee Jordan. Behind them came scores upon scores of red-haired and freckled relatives, other school friends, several professors, and a number of Ministry employees who worked with Arthur and Percy. Many came bearing small mementos that reminded them of Fred, and Hermione herself clutched the Daydream Charm that Fred had once given her. It was still in its original packaging. None of them had had time for daydreams in the past two years.

The Weasleys had not hired an officiant for the ceremony, and at first the group stood by the graveside, crowded tight together in silence. Hermione heard Molly start to weep, and Ginny joined her, pulling away from Harry to bury her face in her mother’s shoulder.. Ron gripped Hermione’s hand so tight it hurt, and when she looked up at him, his ears were scarlet, his eyes rimmed with red and full of unshed tears.

After several long minutes, Arthur Weasley spoke up from the front, his voice raised so that it would carry. In a voice thick with grief, he thanked everyone for coming and expressed how much their support meant to the family.

“The family would like to honor Fred by sharing our memories of him. He was always — always so lively,” said Mr. Weasley, “so full of good spirits, always quick to cheer up his brothers or sister if they should need it. Even when he was small. Of course, Fred being Fred, his methods of cheering you up were just as bad as what was troubling you, often as not…. In any case, if anyone feels led to speak, feel welcome to.”

George interjected that everyone should consider sitting down, since they were undoubtedly going to be there a while; amid strained laughter, the crowd settled into the soft green grass, heedless of their fine robes, to share their stories. It was an odd thing to see Professor McGonagall sitting cross-legged next to Hagrid and Flitwick.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, friends and family shared so many memories of Fred that by the end of it Hermione didn’t know whether she was laughing or crying anymore. Eventually the crowd began to split into small groups who shared the stories behind the items they had brought, or reminisced at length. Hermione re-told the story about warning the twins from attempting to put their names in the Goblet of Fire with an Ageing Potion, and her description of how they had both been blasted away from it by the Age Line was so perfectly timed that even Molly Weasley laughed.

At long last, as the sun began to set, George leapt up and jogged up to the front of the grove.

“Now, no more of this blubbering,” he ordered, sounding congested but determined. “Fred would be ashamed of you lot; he’d feel his very raison d’être undermined!” George was drawing his wand.

“George Weasley,” Molly began in a dangerously low tone that set Hermione on edge — but George ignored her completely.

“Well, ladies and gents, I have the privilege of knowing exactly what he’d do if he were here. And I’ve the feeling most of you probably know, too. What do you think, Ron? What would Fred do?”

“Sneak you a Canary Cream,” Ron said,, wiping his nose on a rather tatty old handkerchief.

“Good place to start,” said George, nodding. “Lee, what do you think? What would Fred do?”

“Put U-No-Poo in the treacle tart,” suggested Lee Jordan.

“What a joker, that Fred! Angelina! You probably know the answer to the question I’m about to ask…”

“Replace all the treacle tart with self-propelling custard pies,” she said promptly, raising an eyebrow at Lee.

“ _Classic_ Fred,” George agreed. “Professor McGonagall! What do you think? What would Fred do?”

“I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest, Mr. Weasley,” said the Transfiguration teacher, sounding a bit froggy, but then she cracked a watery smile and said, “but I believe it would involve comestibles hexed to facilitate skiving.”

There was a ripple of amusement throughout the crowd, reverberating particularly through the group of students at the front. George regarded his erstwhile professor and declared in a gallant tone, “Minnie, you were always Fred’s favorite professor.”

She leveled a Look at him over the rim of her spectacles. “Gonnae nae do that, wee man,” she said in her sternest brogue, sending her students, past and present — which meant all of the Brits present — into stitches.

George picked up his patter once more, turning to Oliver, who was rather cozy next to Angelina and Alicia, “Internationally acclaimed keeper Oliver Wood, care to weigh in?”

“Right, George, in my professional opinion I think he’d uncork some Weather in a Bottle.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s _much_ too lovely a day for a _funeral._ Which means this must be a party. And what’s a party without WEASLEYS’ WILDFIRE WHIZ-BANGS? _”_

At that instant, from the open grave burst a veritable conflagration of pyrotechnics: an entire herd of brilliant silver Thestral Thrashers came thundering forth, followed by a phalanx of Feathery Flamingo Flame Fuzzers that flashed upward into the darkening sky on violently pink wings of fire.

The crowd’s shrieks of surprise were nearly drowned out by the drumroll racket of Exploding Whizz Poppers, the particolored Voodoo Fountain that blasted upward and out over the assembled mourners with the sound of a full New Orleans jazz band playing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and the cackling of the cartoonish Diabolic Dare Devils that romped overhead, shedding a thick red smoke that smelled like cinnamon.

Hermione realized that every single one of the Weasley children were busily lighting sparklers that, when released, instantly leaped into the air and started drawing what appeared to be terrible portraits of Fred Weasley.  Bill seized a handful from a box that Percy had been holding — _Percy_! — and tossed them out to the crowd with an invitation to help.

“I should probably have mentioned there would be pyrotechnics at this gathering,” George shouted over the din. “Please make your way back to the house and start in on the nosh. Don’t mind the Demon Dung Crackers; the smell fades in a snap!”

Molly Weasley had buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, but when she raised her head Hermione could tell she was shaking with laughter, not grief. As the crowd began to rise and disperse, she marched up to George and captured him in a hug so tight that she was like to break his arms. But George did not complain; he returned the embrace, and of his face Hermione only saw his eyebrows, deeply contorted in pain.

She looked away out of consideration and jogged to catch up with Ron. The sparklers followed, and with them bobbed along the images of Fred’s laughing face sketched out in fizzy white light.

 

The gnomes had thoroughly repopulated the garden, Hermione noticed as she picked her way through the crowd with a serviette filled with edibles. All things considered, the Burrow had fared well during its period of abandonment after the Ministry fell to the Death Eaters. But details such as the crew of gnomes building a rickety structure in the middle of the garden out of Mrs. Weasley’s tomato stakes and chicken wire reminded her how recently they had returned, which made her think of the crooked old house forlorn and empty, chickens loose on the lawn, the garden gone to seed in the absence of its keepers. It was impossible not to be constantly reminded of how close they had all come to never seeing the place again.

It was hard for her to think outside of euphemisms. Even at a funeral, despite how intimately acquainted she had become with death. The scene was similar enough to the night of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, that last night she’d been at the Burrow, that the two nights were blurring in her mind. The tents — charmed a deep blue, Hermione noted — enclosed dining tables, lit by tiny hovering strings of lanterns that cast a golden glow over the proceedings now that the sun had set. From the dark corner where she’d taken refuge from the crowd, Hermione observed the garden bursting with people delivering their condolences to the family. At one point she saw Aunt Muriel demanding Bill Weasley vacate his chair for her, and suddenly she found herself gasping, her chest expanding painfully as if she had forgotten to keep breathing and was just now remembering how to do it. Her free hand leapt to her chest and she focused on slowing down her respiration, willing the cramping feeling to go away.

“Miss Granger, are you quite all right?”

It was Professor McGonagall, who had come up beside her quietly, leaning on a blackthorn cane. The older woman was not prone to tender expressions of concern, but there was something calculating in her eyes that made Hermione feel cared for nonetheless.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Hermione gave a weary smile. “Just tired.”

“Small wonder,” said McGonagall. “I imagine Molly had you all out in force this morning.”

“What? — Oh, to prepare for — yes, but it wasn’t so bad.” She shrugged. Housework wasn’t much compared to months of scavenging for food and fighting for their lives. But it had been tiring. She changed the subject quickly: “What is the state of things at Hogwarts? Will the school open on time in September?”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “It’s impossible to say at this juncture. The damages are monumental, not only to the physical building but, as I’m sure you’re aware, to the general morale of the country.”

“But surely the parents know their children’s safety can be assured now,” said Hermione.

“Even if such a public relations miracle were possible, I would hardly advise it. It’s patently untrue — I cannot assure anyone’s safety in the current climate. A fifth of our staff needs to be replaced, and I refuse to vouch for anyone I don’t trust with my life; and furthermore, there are enough of Voldemort’s supporters still at large after the final battle that I fully _expect_ there to be retaliation in the weeks and months to come. And Hogwarts’ defenses were severely breached. I cannot say whether or not they can be repaired.”

Hermione felt a shock of cold steal over her. “But surely — there are plenty of powerful witches and wizards available to rebuild the wards! You, for example, and Professor Flitwick, and — and Kingsley Shacklebolt could come help…. Professor, do you really think the remaining Death Eaters pose such a th-threat?”

Her professor looked at a long moment. “I only have my instincts at this point, Miss Granger.”

“That has to count for something.”

McGonagall smiled wryly. “To this date I have always landed on my feet, but even a cat has only nine lives.”

Hermione smiled, sensing her professor meant to cheer her up, but the thought of McGonagall on her last life was even more sobering.

“Enough,” McGonagall said. “I beg your pardon, Miss Granger; we’ve all had a surfeit of grief. Enlighten me: what are your plans now? Something tells me that you have already started making arrangements.”

Hermione blinked. “Arrangements —? I’m not sure I follow your meaning.”

“For your career, lass, your future. Perhaps it _is_ too soon to be asking….”

 _Oh._ Those _arrangements._ Hermione bit her lip and felt suddenly shy and hesitant. “Well, actually….”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, her expression half-smug, half-fond.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Hermione, “and what I’d like best, if it can be managed at all, is to return to Hogwarts. To finish out my seventh year good and proper, you know. Whatever career I go into, I want to be fully prepared.”

McGonagall’s expression was unreadable. “You should know that if you should want to go into the Aurory, you could easily pass their entrance exams.”

“What about my N.E.W.T.s?”

“We would, of course, allow you to sit the relevant exams, but I have the utmost confidence in your ability to pass them.”

Hermione bit her lip. “What if I don’t want to go into the Aurory?”

McGonagall’s eyebrows disappeared beneath the deep brim of her pointed hat. “I don’t say this about all of my pupils, but, Miss Granger, I believe you can do anything you put your mind to. If you want to return to Hogwarts, I will do everything I can to make that happen.”

“Oh — you needn’t go to trouble on my account,” Hermione began.

“It’s more than just the matter of whether the school will open again in time, however,” said McGonagall, caution coloring her tone. “The terms of the Wockenfuss Fund allow for a student to draw from it for seven consecutive years; the bursar is an absolute devil about those details.” Noticing how Hermione blanched, McGonagall was quick to continue. “However, the Wockenfuss Fund is hardly our only means of student support. There’s the Pendygraft Fund and the Royal Rexwinkle Endowment at the very least; they’re usually used only for instructional supplies and pedagogy promotion respectively, but we could allocate ten to fifteen galleons for your supplies, I think. And we could also solicit support from the Patronage; ordinarily I don’t have much faith in that system, but you are a special case, considering that your name is almost as well-known as Mr. Potter’s. I am confident that, should it come to that, you would find plenty of support from private citizens, especially since the term of support is only a single year.”

“That’s good to know,” said Hermione, but she did not feel completely reassured. Her tuition had been almost completely covered by the Jasper Wockenfuss Muggleborn Support Fund since her first year. She had emptied her savings for their hunting year and knew that she should never be able to afford to pay the fees herself. “I hate to be a nuisance, Professor—“

“Whist,” her professor interrupted.

There was an awkward pause before Hermione, tucking her hair behind her ear, asked, “So… which staff members won’t be returning? Aside from the Carrows, of course.”

Her professor grimaced. “Obviously we need to fill the positions for Muggle Studies and Defense,” she said. “Professor Babbage, too, was lost in the battle, so we’ll need to find another Ancient Runes instructor. Professor Sinistra is taking a sabbatical to recover from a melting hex. And Madame Pince is threatening to retire. It’s nothing new; she threatens every year — but this time she seems to mean it.”

Hermione, whose face had fallen at the mention of Bathsheda Babbage, perked up. “If she needs an assistant….”

McGonagall chuckled. “We’ve been trying to force an assistant on Irma for decades, but she’s adamantly refused.”

“I see. ”

“And then, of course, there’s Severus,” McGonagall said quietly. At the mention of the professor, Hermione felt an unpleasant electric buzz ruffle her senses.

“He… he doesn’t want to come back, I suppose,” Hermione said.

McGonagall blinked at her. “I haven’t a clue as to what he wants, Miss Granger; I haven’t talked to him since… well….”

 _Since before the battle._ Hermione mentally finished the sentence for her. Since before Harry revealed to everyone that Snape was a hero, that he’d been working for the Order all along as a double-agent, that he was Dumbledore’s man to the end.

But it hadn’t been the end. Hermione had made sure of that.

The silence that came down between them stank of guilt, and Hermione felt a wash of nausea roll up in her stomach.

Of all things, what Severus Snape _wanted_ should’ve been the last thing on her mind, and indeed, the question was swept away by a dozen others that burned to be spoken — almost literally. But wild horses couldn’t have dragged them out of her. Speech, in fact, was a faculty beyond her capabilities at the moment. All she could do was sink her teeth into her lower lip and try to keep breathing.

He’d survived, and at least she wouldn’t have his death on her conscience.

 

That was Hermione’s final exchange with McGonagall before the professor was pulled into a discussion with another guest. Hermione didn’t get the opportunity to pause and think, though, for as soon as her professor left her side, one of Mr. Weasley’s colleagues caught her up in conversation. He was a thirty-something dark-haired man with a smile full of bright white teeth that he flashed between intrusive and enthusiastic questions about her time hunting Horcruxes. “Your year abroad,” he called it, _as if it were a gap year,_ Hermione thought. Apparently unimpressed with her dull answers — for how interesting could she make months of rooting around in the woods sound?— he began to regale her with stories of his own encounters with cursed artifacts.

When she finally managed to tactfully extricate herself from his company, Hermione started for a group of familiar faces on the other side of the crowd, but again she was accosted by a stranger. It was another man, this one rather older but no less enthusiastic. He had greying hair combed straight back so it straggled down his collar, and his round eyes crossed slightly over a prominent beaky nose so Hermione had the distinct impression she was being sized up by an elderly crow. This one insisted on shaking her hand and then held onto her while he interrogated her about the diadem of Ravenclaw.

Hermione got the sinking feeling that this was what Harry experienced every time he went out in public. Where was Harry, anyway? She craned her neck to scan the crowd, and the older man finally let her hand go, harrumphing that one’s status as a war heroine didn’t give one license to disrespect one’s elders. Hermione kept her eyes on a distant part of the crowd, and when another man tried to intercept her, she pretended that she was so focused on her distant goal that she didn’t notice the bid for her attention. That seemed to work, although she felt a little guilty for slipping past him without so much as a nod, but she finally made it over to Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour.

“‘Ermione,” Gabrielle exclaimed, and threw her arms around Hermione’s waist. The girl had demonstrated an attachment to Hermione since the Triwizard Tournament, in which they’d both been “captives” of the Mer-people for the Second Task.

Fleur’s greeting was a bit more circumspect. “I see you ‘ave your fair share of admirers now, ‘Ermione,” she said with a soft smile. “And ‘ow are you enjoying ze fruit of your success?”

“You mean those men?” Hermione said, content to keep an arm around Gabrielle’s shoulders as the girl hung onto her waist. “I don’t know them from Adam….”

““I see you are less than impressed with their attentions,” said Fleur.

“Perfect strangers!” Hermione exclaimed. “And they keep asking me about Horcruxes, as if hoping I brought one back as a souvenir.”

Fleur performed a delicate shudder. “‘Ideous dark magic,” she murmured. “I will never understand ze English and ze cavalier manner in which zey discuss such practices. In public! At a _funérailles_! It is ze quintessence of vulgarity.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” said Hermione, somewhat surprised by the strength of Fleur’s reaction.

“ _Maman_ says grandmother would eat vulgar people,” Gabrielle piped up. Fleur swatted her younger sister.

“ _Tais-toi!_ Zat is very rude to say, Gabrielle,” Fleur scolded.

“It is _true,_ ” Gabrielle insisted with a scowl.

“Personally _I_ wouldn’t go so far,” Hermione said, and Fleur laughed, her voice clear and bell-like. “But I hope it blows over soon. I don’t relish being the center of attention whenever I try to cross the street.”

“Do not resent zem for ze attention,” said Fleur. “Zey cannot help it — love comes in at ze eye, said one of your poets.”

“Technically, Yeats was Irish,” said Hermione, a bit self-conscious as she pitched her voice louder so she could be heard over the din of the party.

Fleur laughed again. “Speak your mind and zey will soon lose interest. It is a blessing and a curse, I’m afraid, but you will be ‘appier in ze long run.”

Hermione was certain Fleur had had her share of unwanted attention. But still, there was a difference between the sort of, well, _romantic_ attention that men paid to the Delacour women, and the excessive curiosity people displayed around Harry. “When Harry spoke his mind, people usually paid _more_ attention,” said Hermione doubtfully. “Of course, that was usually because they thought he was going mad….”

Fleur waved a dismissive hand. “Zat is a different case entirely. ‘Arry is a man of whom many ‘ave great expectations; ‘e ‘as been ze apple of ze English eye since ‘e was a tiny baby. You? You are a Muggle-born witch. No matter zat you ‘elped defeat ze Dark Lord, zey will expect little of you, and when you surprise zem, when you show zat you are a powerful and clever witch, as powerful and clever as any, ze English blood purists, ze beastly aristocracy will not be ‘appy.” Fleur’s mouth, usually a softly curved bow, was compressed in a flat line. “Be careful, ‘Ermione — zat is what I want to say to you: be careful, because we ‘ave left ze battlefield, but ze war is not yet over.”

Hermione glanced down at Gabrielle, who was looking up at her — though not too far up; she was going to be tall, like her older sister — with great grey eyes. What kind of world was Gabrielle inheriting? For that matter, what kind of world would _she_ inherit? When she had received her Hogwarts letter at age eleven, she had felt as if a distant relative had died and left her an untold fortune. Now that she was of age, it felt like she had received a dilapidated estate that might end up costing more to maintain than it was worth.

Hermione thanked Fleur for her advice and then with a small start said, “Speaking of Harry — have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”

Fleur glanced around. “I ‘aven’t seen him in quite some time. _Or_ Ginevra.” Her smile was sly and Gabrielle’s giggle was positively fiendish, as the eleven-year-old was apparently all too aware of Fleur’s meaning.

Hermione blushed brightly and muttered something about going to find Ron.

  
Hermione drifted along with a handful of Fred’s old school friends in an exodus to the orchard for a match against Ron and the rest of their cohort. She settled into the grass next to Luna Lovegood, watching the young witches and wizards in their funeral finery whooping and loop-the-looping on the Weasleys’ old brooms above the treetops. The moon was a shock of silver plate behind the teetering towers and crenellated chimneys of the Burrow, and she felt torn between two times and places, as if the intervening year had never happened and she was somehow existing simultaneously in this moment and in another, long distant one in which there was no bitterness to the summer heat. She felt dizzily disoriented, as if she’d had too much nettle wine to drink, and for a while it was easy to pretend it was just her head spinning, not the world, and that they could remain frozen in this moment for as long as they needed to catch up to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, folks, because it's going to be a long ride. The arc of this story takes place, more or less, over the 12 months immediately following the end of the war. General trigger warning: I'm invested in exploring the aftereffects of trauma, so there will be discussion of PTSD, depression, and anxiety, as well as various and sundry nasty war crimes. 
> 
> Please read and review. Comments are currency -- the best way to compensate a fan author and show your appreciation. And they motivate me more than anything!


	2. Best Laid Plans

Early mornings were Hermione’s favorite time in the Burrow, even when she’d stayed up far too late the night before. The deep kitchen was filled with warm gold light and devoid of other occupants. Molly Weasley’s dishwashing and cooking charms had yet to fill the air with their unholy clatter, and Hermione was free to sip her tea in peace, basking in the scent of the potted rosemary in the center of the table. For an hour she enjoyed the solitude, hand (if not eyes) on the book she'd automatically brought with her, until Percy arrived. He was fully dressed — navy blue summer robes and a mourning band around one arm — and he greeted her absently and began toasting a leftover crumpet on a fork over the hob. He didn’t seem in a mood to talk, but he set the toasted crumpet on a plate before Hermione along with a jar of elderberry preserves.

“Percy! Thank you.”

From behind, the way he shrugged his shoulders made him look very much like a taller, lankier Ron. “You’re welcome,” he said as he carefully spitted another crumpet.

She watched him as he turned and canted one bony hip against the top edge of the hob, steadying the fork over the flame. Percy had always been quiet and bookish, but spunky as any other Weasley in his officiousness. To see him so subdued made Hermione wish she knew how to reach out to him. Although she’d always gotten along with Percy better than some of his own siblings did, she still didn’t really know him. She didn’t know what to say to break the silence, which had become heavier somehow than before.

Heavier, yet companionable. She became aware, all at once, that she was attracted to Percy, his quietness, his trim waist, the perfect part in his hair and the way he kept it cut with military precision high above his ears and collar. She could almost imagine that they were figures in a domestic scene, cozy and so comfortable with one another that they didn’t need to speak to communicate. The realization stunned her.

“I always like it when it’s quiet like this,” Percy said, focusing on not burning the crumpet. “Before everyone else has gotten up.”

Hermione blinked, distracted, embarrassed to realize she’d been staring; and it took her a moment to register what he’d said. When she did, she felt pleased to find her earlier thoughts echoed out loud.

“You’re an only child, correct?” When Hermione nodded, he sighed. “If you knew how many times I wished I were an only child….”

He still didn’t look at her as he drifted off, and after a moment she noticed he’d forgotten to turn the fork and the crumpet was beginning to blacken.

“You don’t think it’s your fault…?” Hermione ventured. He reddened slightly, but other than a slight wrinkling of his forehead, he seemed impassive.

“Nothing like that, no.” He used his knuckle to push the overly toasted crumpet onto a saucer and speared another one. “But I can feel the impulse to think that. Human beings are inherently creatures of order. We don’t like chaos. Some of us less than others, of course.” He paused to deliver a wry smile. “We like making connections. We’re so good at looking for patterns, we sometimes see them when they’re not there.”

“Like sorting all _brave_ students into Gryffindor,” said Hermione.

“Precisely. We divide students into houses based on perceived personality traits. Or: something bad happens to us and we decide it must be because we did something bad.” He slowly turned his toasting fork. “It’s _not_ true, of course.”

“Muggles call that magical thinking,” Hermione said. “Attributing a causal relationship between actions and events that we can’t rationally justify. Ironic, the jargon….”

He glanced up at her. “Indeed,” he said again. “The fact is: we do it whether we realize it or not. So even though I know that there’s something in my biology that dictates the drive to see patterns, I can’t quite convince myself that the pattern — the correlation, rather — isn’t there.”

“But you know that it’s not your fault.”

Percy shrugged in a manner that reminded her strongly of Harry. “Certainly. But... the doubt remains.”

Hermione wanted to get up and give him a hug, maybe even sneak a comforting kiss above the sharp white line of his collar where it rose above his robes, but at that moment Ron came slouching in. She saw Percy turn hastily away from her, returning his focus completely to his task.

“Morning, Hermione. Perce.”

Ron shuffled over and gave her a somewhat bashful kiss on the top of her head.

“Did you sleep well, Ronald?” said Hermione, reverting as usual to formality in her slight embarrassment.

“I’m supposed to be asking you that,” he said, moving around the table to sit down across from her. “Any of those crumpets left, Percy?”

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Percy over his shoulder. “There’re two whole trays left.”

“Your mother went a bit…”

“A bit mad with the baked goods,” Ron interrupted. “Classic Mum. Chuck one over, Perce.” Percy obliged. “Good old Mum.”

“Drowning her sorrows in cookery,” said Percy.

Hermione watched Ron stuff almost the entire crumpet into his mouth and thought, _The better for some to drown their sorrows in_ eating _said cookery._

It was remarkable, actually, how breezy Ron sounded. Then again, food rarely failed to put him in a good mood.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Percy, turning to nod at them. “Hermione, it was good talking with you.”

“Likewise,” she said, watching him go.

“I can’t believe he’s going to work today,” said Ron, staring at the empty doorway.

Hermione shrugged. _He takes his work seriously,_ she wanted to say, instinctively set to defend a member of her tribe — bookish, introverted, and hyper-organized. But she didn’t feel like picking a fight with Ron this morning, and her instinct told her that he would see any defense of Percy as such.

Besides, she had something important to talk to him about.

She made it to the end of her first crumpet and was just starting to slice open another when she brought it up. Ron had been talking about the pyrotechnics that had nearly set the orchard on fire, and when he paused to take a bite, she changed the subject. “Ron, I… I spoke with Professor McGonagall last night.”

“I saw,” he said, swallowing. “What, talking about you coming on as the youngest-ever arithmancy professor?”

Hermione frowned, spreading her crumpet with preserves. “We were talking about what I want to do next, and I asked her about returning to Hogwarts to finish my seventh year.”

Ron’s spoon stopped mid-air, leftover trifle dripping back onto his plate. “What?”

Hermione continued to spread her preserves with measured strokes of her knife. “Of course, the three of us missed out on a whole year of school while we were hunting for Horcruxes,” she said. “I need to finish before I make any decisions about what to do next.”

“Hermione, you could literally walk into any place you wanted and get a job. The Aurory would fall all over themselves to enlist you!”

“I know, but I don’t want to _be_ an Auror, Ron.”

Now he set his spoon down with a clatter. “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t, and frankly I don’t know what would’ve given you that idea.”

“I…” He stopped. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought… I just thought you and Harry and I would go right on together, like we always have.”

Hermione looked at him pityingly. She felt a great deal of affection for him at the moment, but also a deep vein of sadness, and a little envy that he still believed such a thing was possible. “You know we can’t keep going like we always have. We all grow up, do different things, start spending time with other people. Not that I plan to stop spending time with either of you,” she added hastily. “Not at all, Ron, I love you both and I want you around every day of my life. Well, maybe a little less during Quidditch season,” she reconsidered with a small smile. “But Ron, I… I think I want to do something different. Go to university. Go abroad. I want… I want to be around witches and wizards I haven’t known since I was eleven, and I want to learn things from them I should never even begin to imagine on my own. D’you see how I need that?” she asked earnestly, afraid, suddenly, of how he might react.

Ron was sitting across from her with his mouth half-open.

“Of course I see how you need that,” he said. “What kind of lout would I be to hold you back from that?”

Hermione’s heart seemed to break with relief. “Oh, Ron — are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. _I’ve_ known you since we were eleven. You think anyone could hold you back from studying?” He picked up his spoon again. “Hermione, not even _time_ could hold you back when you wanted to take Divination, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy all at the same time.”

For the _n_ th time in the past twenty-four hours, Hermione felt tears threatening to spill. She leapt up and came round the table to squash him in a rather desperate hug. “Oh, Ron.”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Ron, awkwardly patting her forearm where it crossed his throat. “Don’t cry.”

At that moment Ginny’s voice broke in from the doorway. “Yeah, Hermione, he’s just sorry he won’t be able to wheedle you into writing essays for him in Auror school.”

Hermione giggled weakly while Ron glared at his little sister.

“Besides,” he said, as Hermione released him and slid down into the chair next to him. “After all we’ve been through, even _I’m_ not so insecure that I think we’ll fall out of touch. Not after fighting Voldemort together for seven years.”

“Seven years,” Hermione echoed. Seven _years._ Almost half her life dedicated to keeping her friend alive, to stopping a mass-murdering madman.

“Seven years,” Ron repeated. “Hard to believe it’s been that long.”

Ginny snorted, but it was clear her heart wasn’t in it. “Maybe for you,” she muttered.

As Ron sniped back at Ginny — albeit in a much more subdued fashion than usual — Hermione was inclined to agree with her. Hermione was getting just old enough to start thinking about her life in distinct phases or seasons or geological periods. She saw that her childhood was ending, but the rest of her life was beginning. She didn’t know how to process the change; indeed, she could hardly bring herself to feel anything about it except for a a kind of self-preserving numbness, like someone had scooped out all her insides and packed her full of some dense and utterly nonreactive substance, like dirt. The kind you kick over the remains of a fire, or left over from filling a grave.

“Where’s Harry, anyway?” Ron was asking, and Hermione snapped out of her thoughts to focus on the two redheads avoiding each other’s eyes across the table.

“How should I know? I’m not his mother,” Ginny said a little curtly.

“She says, as if we didn’t know she’d disappeared for _hours_ last night with the Boy Who Lived to do really disgusting things with his best friend’s sister,” said Ron. Ginny, true to Weasley form, flushed red.

“For your information, Ronald Bilius, we had an argument. A big, fat, stroppy row. I have no idea where he is now, nor do I particularly care.”

Hermione straightened up. Beside her, Ron looked clearly frantic, but he was struggling to bite his tongue. “Wait, you’re saying Harry’s — gone off somewhere?” she said anxiously.

“How could you let him?!” Ron burst out.

Ginny gaped at him. Hermione cringed in anticipation of the explosion.

“How could I LET him?” Ginny exclaimed. “How could I — what did I JUST say, Ron? Didn’t I JUST say that I’m not his mother? Hermione, you heard me say I’m not Harry’s mother, right?”

Hermione didn’t have time to respond before Mrs. Weasley burst into the kitchen, terrifying with hair still frowsy from sleep, wrapped in a fraying beige terrycloth robe.

“What is all this racket?!” she hissed at them all. “There are eight other people in this house trying to sleep.”

“Ginny is being a harpy,” Ron complained. Ginny rounded on him, opening her mouth to snap at him, but Mrs. Weasley whipped out her wand and both her youngest children froze.

“I do not care,” she said, enunciating very crisply. “You will both be quiet or go to your rooms. If I hear anything from either of you for the rest of the day, you will regret it. Do you hear me?”

Ron and Ginny both nodded, looking shaken. Hermione didn’t move a muscle. Mrs. Weasley scared her in a way that dark magic never had. She’d experienced the brunt of the matriarch’s wrath before, of course. But this time it was different; Molly Weasley looked a little more unhinged than she ever had, on the verge of some kind of break, really. Hermione had no desire to draw her attention.

Indeed, she had a moment of panic as Mrs. Weasley’s eyes drifted over to her. “Hello, Hermione, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, but without her usual sugary warmth. “I apologize for my children’s behavior.”

“It’s nothing,” said Hermione automatically, and Mrs. Weasley smiled tightly and left the room.

Ron let out a long, shuddering breath. “God.”

“Right?” Ginny whispered. All irritation with Ron seemed to have vanished, oddly enough. Ginny could hold a grudge ’til Merlin came back. But Mrs. Weasley’s behavior and mien were enough to shock her out of it.

“We can’t let her know about Harry,” said Ron in a whisper.

“No shit,” said Ginny. Ron looked askance at her but said nothing.

“Well, what do we tell her, then?” said Hermione. “She’ll realize eventually.”

The three looked at one another. Ron shrugged; Ginny’s lips pursed as she considered it.

“We’ll just say he… went to….”

“Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “We’ll say he went to Hogwarts. They wouldn’t turn him away. And it’s at the top of the list to check, anyway.

Ginny shook her head. “He didn’t go to Hogwarts. Or Grimmauld Place. He doesn’t want to be found.”

“What is he _thinking?_ ” Hermione moaned. “Harry, you complete idiot.”

“He’s not thinking, that’s the problem,” Ginny said irritably. “He’s got to go hide somewhere and torture himself with guilt and distance himself from humanity because he’s a danger to everyone he’s ever loved. Or some such utter rot.”

“That’s what he said?” Hermione whispered in horror.

“Harry, you git,” Ron said through gritted teeth. “He’d take responsibility for You-Know-Who if we let him get away with it. Seriously, the man’s got a guilt complex the size of an Acromantula.”

“Goes with the whole hero package, apparently,” Ginny said. Her eyes flashed with real anger.

“So what do we do?” Ron asked after a moment. “Aside from keep it from Mum at all costs.”

Hermione glanced at Ginny. “You talked with him last, I assume. Was he in a state? I mean, do you think we should go after him?”

Ginny scowled. “I don’t _know_ , Hermione. I don’t think he was going to _do_ anything. Just go hide out for a while.”

“What exactly did he say, Ginny?” Hermione asked. She kept her voice neutral, not wanting to set Ginny off again; she did not want to bring Mrs. Weasley down to the kitchen again.

Ginny looked at her for a long moment, and then the fight went out of her. She sighed and passed her hand over her eyes. “He said he needs to spend some time on his own. He said he doesn’t want to get dragged into interviews or have his photo taken or have his personality picked apart in the _Prophet._ And he said he needs time away from _me.”_ She blinked at them, hurt palpable in her face. “From you both, too,” she added grudgingly. “I wanted him to promise he wouldn’t do anything _heroic,_ but he wouldn’t. He said the last thing on his mind was hunting down rogue Death Eaters or whatever. He just wants some peace and quiet.”

“Can’t blame him, can we?” said Ron.

Hermione let out a breath. “So maybe we should just… wait it out?”

“Couple of days?” Ron suggested. “Wait for him to get his head out of his arse?”

“That’ll take a while,” Ginny grumbled, but there was less anger now, more resignation.

Hermione got up, carefully pushing her chair back from the table. “I’m going to go shower and get dressed,” she said, “before everybody else starts competing for it.”

She left the two to bicker in whispers over who got the last bit of leftover treacle tart.

  


Hermione had nowhere else to go and little motivation to leave the Weasleys in their time of grief, so she had accepted Mrs. Weasley’s invitation to stay through the end of the week with the non-explanation that her parents “shouldn’t mind.” She certainly had no intention of telling Mrs. Weasley that her parents weren’t expecting her on the basis that they no longer remembered they were her parents. Yet she didn’t think Mrs. Weasley would keep forgetting to ask about them for much longer, and whenever she thought about trying to explain to Molly Weasley what she had done, she started to feel the panicky, irrational urge to _hide._

She knew she had to come up with a plan, if only to keep herself sane, and sooner rather than later. So that afternoon, while most of the family napped or occupied themselves with quiet tasks, she sat down on the front stoop between the listless Flutterby bushes, a bit of parchment and a self-inking quill in hand, to think.

Until the night before, she’d been sure that Hogwarts would take her in. But evidently, room and board there wasn’t as simple as asking the house elves to set another place at the Gryffindor table. She felt silly to have thought otherwise. Still, she added it to her list. #1: Hogwarts, she wrote, and beneath it, in bullet points:

  * ___Pros:  
___
    * _Feels like home_
    * _They could use my help (?)_
    * _Library!_
    * _Perfect place to revise for N.E.W.T.s etc._


  * ___Cons:  
___
    * _Harry's house_
    * _Plenty of room_
    * _Connected to Floo_
    * _Funding! (??)_
    * _Ron and Harry wouldn't be there?_
    * _Far from the Ministry_
    * _Is it livable?_



Well, _that_ wasn’t very helpful. Too many variables she didn't know how to define. But between the matter of funding and the likelihood that the living quarters would be out of commission, it seemed the weakest of her options thus far.

Whatever she chose, she’d have to tell Ron that she didn’t plan to stay at the Burrow indefinitely. Oh, of course he’d understand — eventually. She sighed, made a note in the margin to _contact Professor McGonagall,_ and after nibbling on the tip of her quill for a moment, she started a second column:

#2: 12 Grimmauld Place 

  * ___Pros:  
___
    * _Harry's house_
    * _Plenty of room_
    * _Connected to Floo_
    * _Harry as house-mate!_
    * _Library!_


  * ___Cons:  
___
    * _Does H want a house-mate?_
    * _Mrs Black's portrait = ugh_
    * _Not fit for human habitation (?)_
    * _Unsafe...?_
    * _Where is Harry??_  



This had been the plan she’d thought up last night, before she found out that Harry had disappeared. Even then, she’d had to consider that Harry might be well shut of her. No matter their affection for one another, they had just spent months in a tent together, listening to one another snore, seeing each other filthy, dealing with evidence of the other’s bodily excretions in the tiny WC, bickering out of sheer boredom and anxiety. Thinking it through, she couldn’t really blame him for pulling a disappearing act. She herself was longing for some alone time and a room to herself.

Then again, Number Twelve was very large with plenty of rooms, and she felt certain that it should provide them with ample area to stretch without stepping on one another’s toes. Especially if Harry wasn’t even there, as Ginny suggested. Would he mind if she took up residence there in his absence? Probably not, but it would be best to send an owl. Or a Patronus, rather, since she had no idea where she’d send a post owl.

Still, even if she had his blessing, she couldn’t be certain that the house was safe. She’d lost track of who’d known the secret of its location in the end. Even though Snape had been on their side, she would expect him to have been compelled to disseminate the location of the Order’s HQ among the Death Eaters as a matter of course.

She shuddered. _That reminded her._

#3: Home

  * _Pros:_
    * _Familiar_
    * _Out of Mrs W’s hair_
    * _Quiet!_


  * _Cons:_
    * _Empty since Mum & Dad moved_
    * _Maintenance?_
    * _Disconnected from wizarding world_
      * _Lonely_
    * _UNSAFE?_



It was hard to even imagine herself living in that house alone. As much as she did sympathize with Harry, as much as she wanted peace and quiet, thinking about living there depressed her. She hadn’t slept in a room alone for over a year, let alone in an entirely empty building. Although she’d been an only child, she’d grown to like sharing space with others, whether it was Ginny at the Burrow, or Ron and Harry in that little tent, or even Padma and Lavender in Gryffindor Tower. It was comforting to be able to join in a game of Exploding Snap in a common room when she needed to get out of her head, or to have dinner with roommates and review the events of the day. And even thinking about the house as she’d left it — empty, electric and water turned off, digital clock on the microwave dead, fridge cleaned out, mail diverted through an anonymous forwarding service, and void of any evidence that she herself had ever lived there — well, thinking about the place made her want to sink into a stupor and stay there.

It was absurd to think about, but she had no idea if it actually still looked the way she’d left it. Since she relocated her parents, she hadn’t been back to the place. The stasis spells she put on it to keep the dust off the surfaces and the garden and hedge looking trim would have held, given no tampering. But she’d had damn good reason to move her parents, and she fully expected to find signs of interference from Death Eaters. To say the least. It was entirely possible that the house had been razed to the ground since the previous summer… though she hoped the Order would’ve informed her if that had happened.

She jumped as she heard the door behind her squeal on its hinges as it swung open, and she instinctively shuffled her parchment to hide her notes.

It turned out to be Ron. He joined her on the stoop and extended a half-empty glass of pumpkin juice to her. She drank, immediately refreshed by the condensation on the glass, the iciness of the malty-textured drink in her mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re working on schoolwork,” said Ron, taking the glass back and sipping from it.

“Not exactly,” she said, blushing. “Anyway, what schoolwork would I be doing?”

Ron shrugged. “I half-expect you to nick Ginny’s out of desperation before the summer’s out,” he said, surprising a smile out of Hermione. She nudged his knee with hers.

“So what _are_ you up to?” he asked after a short while.

“Oh, nothing — just….” She hesitated. “Needed some time by myself.”

Instantly Ron drew away; it was a subtle shift but Hermione caught it. “Oh. Sorry — I know you don’t like how loud we are sometimes. I can leave you to it, then.”

He began to unfold his long limbs but she caught his arm before he could take his leave. “Ron — no, you don’t have to go.”

He stopped, looked down at her hand where it squeezed his arm. Against his ruddy, freckled forearm, her hand was very brown, marked with shadows of whip-thin scars — from cat claws, brambles and brush, and the occasional hex mark. Her palm was slightly warmer than his skin. He unclenched his fist, and she felt tendons shifting under her fingers.

His eyes were very blue. Those blue eyes were what had first caught her heart’s attention, what seemed like a lifetime ago. His eyelashes were absurdly thick and long, a pale wheat color in the afternoon sunlight, and he looked down his long, pointed nose at her from beneath those lashes and she felt her pulse quicken.

She let her ream of notes slide down between her knees, then, until they rested between her ankles, and when he leaned into her, she welcomed his mouth with hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! They are the best encouragement for me to post more often. :) Speaking of frequency of posts, I'm aiming for about one 4000-word chapter a week right now. Things might get a bit hairy when the semester starts up at the end of August, though.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Percy. I've liked his character since the first book, and I think ickle firstie!Hermione would have desperately attached herself to him, imperious stickler for the rules that he was, and as a pureblood he would've been a great source of information for her. It seems natural that she might have had a bit of a crush on him at the beginning. I'm convinced that the severity of her crush on Lockhart in CoS was largely due to his apparent magical skill and prowess -- his attractiveness alone wouldn't have held her attention long. (Dare I bring up her fling with Viktor, he of the suspiciously familiar beetle brows and hooked nose?) In any case, it's the authority of skill and hard work she seems to really admire.
> 
> And despite my conviction that Ron would be a terrible match for Hermione, I do NOT plan for any Ron-bashing in this fic. Side-note: have you seen [the Meyers Briggs chart that assigns the 16 personality types to various HP characters?](http://www.packroad.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/HP_mbti.jpg) I used to test as borderline ENFJ/ESFJ -- that is, Dumbledore or Lily -- but I retook it this morning (a lot has changed since the last time I took the test) and it classified me as ENFP -- Ron! I'm not sure I agree that Ron is a solid ENFP, but he is kind of an improviser and quite charismatic.


	3. The News That's Fit To Print

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lavinia Lavender for beta-ing!

The Daily Prophet very quickly became a prized commodity in the Weasley house, the center of heated arguments among the siblings about who had the right to read it first. Bill claimed that as firstborn he had the right of seniority; Percy claimed his position at the Ministry gave him the right; Charlie said he didn’t have time to wait before he left for Romania (his departure was scheduled for the weekend); Ron said he needed to catch up with what had been going on in his absence from civilization; and Ginny claimed she should get it first because she always went last. Only George stayed out of it, and because of this virtuous behavior — and his disturbing silence and distance from the family in recent days — Mrs. Weasley, as judge and jury in the event of a sibling squabble, bestowed the honor of first go at it to him. It was that, she said, or — in a threatening tone that her offspring instinctively heeded with ducked heads — she would cancel the family subscription altogether.

By the time Hermione got to the paper, it was often stained with remnants of breakfast and lunch, not to mention missing certain sections altogether. What was left, she carefully clipped out and stored in a Trapper-Keeper that lived in her Hogwarts trunk. But in the end, she relied on Mr. Weasley’s evening report when he got home from work, as his information was infinitely more trustworthy than the Prophet’s despite the fact that the paper was undergoing a much-needed major reorganization in management. And Arthur often brought news that hadn’t even made it to the Prophet yet.

Friday evening he clattered into the kitchen, shucking off his traveling cloak and planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“How was your day, love?” said Mrs. Weasley, charming a knife to slice a bunch of carrots into matchsticks.

“Hell. Huge uproar today. You wouldn’t believe it — Kinsgley’s gone and sacked almost the entire Wizengamot.”

“What?!” Mr. Weasley suddenly had the full attention of the kitchen’s occupants.

“Why?” Ron said. “Not that it’s a big mystery — half of those idiots were allied to You-Know-Who, weren’t they?”

Mr. Weasley tilted his head, indicating yes and no. “There were as many reasons as members who got the boot,” he said. “But that was one of them. Another was that too many of them were suspected of buying their way onto the council. Unsurprising -- those old-money pureblood families can afford it.”

“A new day is definitely dawning for the Ministry,” Percy said proudly as he strode in through the door, Vanishing the Floo dust from his robes with a gesture of his wand. His hair was as tidy as when he’d Floo’d to the Ministry that morning.

“Did they kick Umbridge out?” Ron asked eagerly. “Please, please tell me that hag got kicked out.”

Mr. Weasley grimaced as he lowered himself into his usual seat at the table. “Unfortunately, Dolores Umbridge has still managed to stay just enough on this side of the law to survive this first round of cuts.”

Ron’s curse was mild, but heartfelt. Mrs. Weasley still reprimanded him with a cuff to the ear, which he ducked to avoid.

“There’s rumors of another cut coming, though,” said Mr. Weasley.

“And not just for the Wizengamot,” said Percy significantly. “For the whole Ministry.”

Mrs. Weasley turned with a worried look on her face. Her cheeks were flushed from hanging over the stove. “Arthur…?”

Mr. Weasley shook his head. “Not to worry, dearest. Kingsley has assured me that he’s only got his eye on those with suspected ties to You-Know-Who. Mostly financial ones. Obviously, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office doesn’t have to worry about that. Never thought I’d be glad that we’re so obviously underfunded….”

He looked worn out and a bit greying around the edges. Quite literally, Hermione noted — his hair had gotten distinctly less ginger over the past year and the lines in his face had multiplied and grown deeper. His sense of humor, as with the rest of his family, couldn’t be eradicated even by the pain of losing a child. But there was a weariness that bowed his shoulders lower than Hermione had ever seen them before. He looked like one good breeze would make him crumple.

Out of the blue, Mr. Weasley announced: “I also heard news of Professor Snape. He’s being held in a secure wing of St. Mungo’s.” 

At the professor’s name, a shock went through Hermione, so strong she could taste the copper in her mouth.

“Held? Held prisoner?” Bill was flabbergasted.

“It wasn’t long ago that we all were convinced he was a murderer, Bill,” said Arthur.

“He is a murderer,” said Ron, already on the defensive as he expected his family’s instant protest.

“Ronald!” Hermione gasped.

“Just because we know it was justified doesn’t mean the rest of the world will let him go free without a trial,” Percy said, a bit shrill as he pitched his voice high enough to hear above the din.

“Percy’s right, everyone,” Arthur said, standing at the head of the table. “Now more than ever, Shacklebolt needs to show the public that the Ministry is going transparent. If he pardoned Snape, he’d have half the wizarding world calling for his immediate resignation, if not his head.”

“But surely it’ll just be a formality,” said Charlie. He and Bill looked especially horrified, and Hermione remembered that they’d been Snape’s students during a time when the ex-potions master had been less ill-tempered. They had never hated him the way Ron and Ginny did.

“We can’t be sure of that,” said Molly as she dressed the carrot slaw. “If Kingsley is making such radical changes, I’d be very surprised if he gave Professor Snape’s case anything less than his utmost attention.”

“Well, of course, because he’s acting head of the Wizengamot himself,” said Ron. “Right? But he knows Snape. That’s got to count for something.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “For now, we should be thankful that he survived. From what I understand, he was rather badly injured in the battle. Frankly, it’s a miracle he survived at all.”

“Who needs a miracle when you’ve got Hermione,” said Ron, looking at her with affection and reddening a bit as he patted her on the shoulder.

Hermione reddened, too. It was the first time her actions in the Shrieking Shack had been brought up in such a crowd. To her intense discomfort, she realized inquisitive faces had turned to her expectantly, wanting exactly the thing she’d been desperately trying to avoid.

Arthur was looking around the crowded room with a furrowed brow. When his eyes had completed the circuit, he looked at Ron and Hermione. “Where’s Harry, then?”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other guiltily. “Erm,” began Ron, glancing at his mother, and then Ginny broke in.

“He’s gone to Hogwarts,” she said lightly. 

“To Hogwarts?” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “What’s he doing there?”

“Thought he’d help with the reconstruction efforts,” said Hermione.

“Reconstruction?” Charlie laughed. “What does he know about reconstruction?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Ginny with some relish. “I expect he’s just going to get a cornerstone dropped on his head or something.”

“Shouldn’t do any damage, thick as it is,” Ron muttered. 

“Well, masonry charms aren’t terribly difficult to learn,” said Bill. “It’s a good idea, actually. I’m willing to bet they’re in need of some good charmworkers right now.”

“Now that’s certainly true,” said Mrs. Weasley, and, apparently satisfied, she turned back to the potatoes waiting on the work surface.

“How’d he get to Hogwarts?” Percy asked. “The Floo’s been disconnected for security purposes, and as everyone knows you can’t Apparate there.”

“Erm….” Both Ginny and Ron hesitated.

“He took the Floo to Hogsmeade,” Hermione supplied quickly. “He said he’d walk to the school from there.”

“Heavens, I hope he had the sense to take his cloak,” said Mrs. Weasley over her shoulder. “It’s been storming like the devil up there all day.”

“He’s quite adept at survival charms by now,” said Hermione. “All of us are. Ron became a master of the Four-Point Spell.” It was a terrible lie — Ron had as much sense of direction as a root vegetable, and with Point Me he wasn’t much better — but she had used up all her meager skill at subterfuge with the lie about Harry going to Hogwarts to help with the restoration.

“The really impressive thing is Hermione’s Fungi Finding Charm,” Ron said, apparently trying to redirect his family’s interest to a less vulnerable target.

“Too bad it doesn’t differentiate between safe and poisonous mushrooms,” said Hermione. “Actually, one of the things I did in our down-time was work on inventing a spell that would differentiate between them. It’s amazing that no one’s developed one before! Of course, the primary difficulty was the lack of research materials available to us; I’d packed a few books on vegetation of Great Britain, but nothing at all that talked about spellwork. I got quite close to my goal, too; in the end the spell would reliably differentiate between edible and deadly mushrooms with one hundred percent accuracy.”

Percy furrowed his brow. “How is that not meeting your goal?” he asked.

“Oh. Well,” said Hermione, flustering, “the way it distinguished the good mushrooms was by, er….”

“Burning them to a crisp!” Ron interrupted with a cackle.

“Ron,” said Hermione, a bit hurt by his enthusiasm.

“It practically vaporized them,” Ron continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “FWOOM.” His hands sketched an explosion in midair. Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and Ginny were laughing, and even Percy looked amused. “Hermione’s always been top with fire charms,” Ron said over the ruckus. “She used to make these little jars filled with blue fire in the winter to keep us warm.”

“How cozy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I remember those dormitories being so cold in the winter. Lovely as Hogwarts was, the fireplace was never quite hot enough to heat the whole room.”

“Maybe they’ll fix that this time around,” said Charlie. 

The lull that followed unnerved Hermione. Dinners at the Burrow had always been loud, boisterous affairs, but in the days following the war, following Fred’s death, laughter was short-lived, and contemplative silences tended toward overly sober. She could almost see the thought making its way around the room: Hogwarts, like the rest of them, would never be the same again.

You can never go home, Hermione thought, and it stayed with her throughout the night.

 

It was past midnight when she eased open the door to Ginny’s room. She’d gotten caught up in a conversation with Bill about agriculture in ancient Egypt, about which he knew a stunning degree, and they’d talked until the cumulative effect of the Butterbeers made it difficult to converse in the Queen’s English.

She tiptoed across the room, dodging the really squeaky floorboards, and she slipped under the covers, stripping down to her underwear beneath and tossing her clothes onto the floor. Her brain felt pleasantly swollen and tingly, and thoughts crossed through the bleary lens of her internal focus with the effort of first years trudging through the swampy Marshmold patch in Greenhouse Two. Irrigation was a fascinating subject.

It took all her energy to roll onto her back, but only a little more for her hand to idle down her body to the already damp curls between her legs. She had only the most fleeting concern for Ginny, sleeping on the other side of the room, but she didn’t even bother to put up a silencing charm. She’d gotten to be an expert at doing this in complete silence during her year of hunting. Unlike the boys, she thought, grimacing in the dark at an image that crossed her mind that she wished she could unsee.

But she hadn’t done it since….

No matter. She bit her lip in concentration. She wouldn’t think about it. She absolutely wouldn’t, not for a moment. She could do this without thinking. Her fingers dipped down, spread her sweetness up, and gently began to circle. She was grateful for Butterbeer and how dense it made the matter of her thoughts.

But as the first real spark of arousal flickered through her belly, as perspiration beaded at her hairline, she remembered. Her body reminded her, if not her brain. Her body recalled the weight of another pressing her down, the texture of soft broadcloth on naked skin, the tangle of slick hair on her cheek, the humid heat of Severus Snape’s breath on her neck and his stifled cry in her hair as he came shaking apart.

She silenced her gasp, but withdrew her fingers instantly, wiping them on the sheet.

From the other bed, she heard Ginny mumble, half-awake, “Y’okay?”

Hermione held her breath for a long moment as if she were trying to cure a case of the hiccups. Her heart seemed to flounder in her chest.

“Fine. Go back to sleep,” she finally managed.

There was no response from Ginny except a snuffling sound that quickly turned into her gentle snores.

Mercifully, it took Hermione only a few minutes to fall asleep. Thank Butterbeer, indeed.

 

She woke Friday morning later than usual, feeling unexpectedly bursting with energy. As she washed her hair, she sang a Muggle pop tune that she half-remembered from her pre-Hogwarts childhood, and she put some effort into dressing, donning a dark blue robe that Ginny had grown out of two years ago and a necklace with a small blue topaz pendant she had salvaged from her mother’s jewelry box. She smoothed just enough Sleak-Eazy into her wet hair to secure her baby hairs and weigh down the wisps that were inclined to cowlick, and then she pulled it into a voluminous knot at the back of her head. 

When she joined the Weasleys for breakfast, she found her good mood at odds with the rest of the family’s morning disposition. Bill and Charlie were fighting over the Prophet — again; Ginny was needling Ron for his table manners, while he periodically showed her a mouthful of half-chewed beans and toast; Mrs. Weasley was scrubbing a cast-iron skillet with excessive force; and Pigwidgeon was on his perch above the kitchen sink, chattering angrily as he groomed his feathers. George was nowhere to be seen, and Percy and Mr. Weasley had evidently gone off to the Ministry already.

Hermione made it through half a bowl of porridge before she decided she would go to London first thing.

It served an entirely practical purpose: she couldn’t possibly put off replacing her wand any longer. But it would also get her out of the Burrow, and she desperately needed to move. After months of more or less primitive camping, running from Snatchers, fending off giant evil snakes, and dueling Death Eaters and Dark Lords, the relative inactivity of the last couple weeks was starting to get to her.

“So,” she said loudly, her voice cutting across Ginny and Ron’s squabbling, “I think I’m going to London today.”

Ron closed his bean-filled mouth and Ginny’s furious expression softened into one of mere irritation as she turned to regard Hermione.

“To Diagon Alley, specifically,” she said. “I need to get a new wand. This one’s rubbish.” To illustrate, she held up the wand in question.

A talon of walnut she had stolen from the witch that had tortured Neville’s parents to insanity and killed Sirius Black before it had been turned on her, Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand was vile and unyielding. Hermione frequently found herself engaged in what felt for all the world like a battle of wills with it. Wands, she knew from their research on the Elder Wand, were classified as sentient. She’d never thought of her own wand as having a will of its own, but this particular instrument had grown twisted and malevolent in Bellatrix's possession. With this wand in her hand, she found her charms more likely to fizzle out with a puff of foul-smelling gas, her transfigured objects prone to blackening and putrefying or blistering with beady black eyes all over, and generally, she felt as though the wand was watching her. Always. It was rather like the effect of the Horcrux, she thought, except the wand had its own soul distinct from its ex-owner. She had taken to putting it in a drawer while she slept, though it pained her to sleep without a wand in her grip.

Furthermore, the wand really, really hated Molly Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley set the skillet on the stove, and when she turned around, she hissed like a cat. “Put that cursed thing away!” she snapped.

But it was too late. The wand, seemingly conscious of Mrs. Weasley’s presence and attention, leapt in Hermione’s grasp like the reins of a startled horse. There was a bang and a flash of violet light — all the children at the table cried out — Bill and Ron leapt to their feet — but Mrs. Weasley already had her wand in hand and hit the walnut wand with a Containment Charm so fast that it knocked the wind out of Hermione. Hermione staggered, would have dropped the wand, but the charm caught her.

“Mum! Are you okay?” Ron had leapt around the table, but his mother shooed him away.

“I’m fine, Ronald. Hermione Jean Granger, what in Merlin’s name do you think you were doing, waving that thing around?”

Hermione whimpered; her hand was caught in the charm like a rabbit in a trap, and the violet energy was starting to heat up the spherical field. Bill rushed over, wandlessly flinging up diagnostic charms and reading the ghostly runes as he began pricking the air around the Containment Charm with his wand, fixing beads of blue light in place.

“William —“ Mrs. Weasley began.

“Almost done!” Bill snapped. “Eihwaz, Algiz — Hermione, on my three, let go the wand and yank out your hand. One — “ he cast a glowing blue node — “two —“ he cast another — “three!” 

Just as he cast the final point in the net of blue light, Hermione yanked her hand out. And just in time: as the final point in the network seared into place, the completed matrix flared white-hot, bright as a fireball, consuming the Containment Charm and the wand inside with a brilliant white light before imploding, collapsing into nothingness.

When the dust settled, Hermione was clutching her hand to her chest, and Mrs. Weasley was white as a ghost.

Ginny was the first to speak. “Merlin’s BALLS.”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t even chide her. “Bill, what was that?”

“Hermione, are you alright?” Ron asked anxiously.

Bill was already at Hermione’s side, gently taking her wand-hand to examine it. She cried out and winced at the touch. The skin of her hand, from her wrist to her fingertips, was lobster-red.

“That’s a burn,” said Bill matter-of-factly as he cast his diagnostics. “But no other lingering Dark effects that my diagnostics can detect.”

Hermione’s vision swam with tears and she became aware of her heart banging almost painfully in her chest. “I’m sorry -- Mrs. Weasley, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean --”

Mrs. Weasley was standing in front of her before Hermione could blink away the tears, and the matronly witch helped ease her down into a chair. Bill didn’t let go of her hand. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I should have warned you --”

Hermione wiped her eyes with her uninjured hand. “No, I should’ve known. After all we learned about wands these past few months -- I should’ve known her wand would be deviant --”

“Don’t blame yourself, Hermione,” said Bill. “I’ve never seen a wand do that before, and I’ve seen a hell of a lot of weird — er — stuff.” He glanced over at his mother before continuing. “Charlie, do you have anything for this?”

Charlie had also come over to get a closer look at Hermione’s hand, which was starting to darken. She was beginning to feel a bit crowded. “Accio burn paste.”

“Bill, that wandwork -- that was incredible,” Hermione said as Bill examined her palm. “I’ve never seen anything like it. That kind of advanced arithmancy — we only cover the theory at Hogwarts!”

“That was arithmancy?” Ron said, sounding stunned.

“Nerd,” intoned Charlie, pretending to be unimpressed, but he was edging closer to get a better look at Bill’s wandwork. There was a slapping sound as Charlie caught the burn paste he’d summoned, and then he handed it to Bill. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ron asked anxiously, leaning over Charlie’s shoulder to get a better look.

“I’ll be fine once the burn paste goes on,” said Hermione as Bill unscrewed the jar.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose the hand,” said Bill, and for him to sound so grim was sobering. “A minute longer and there wouldn’t be anything left for me to put this on.” He brandished a dollop of mustard-yellow paste at her.

“Lucky we have an experienced curse-breaker in the family,” said Ron, who was looking like he was trying not to be jealous as he watched Bill smoothe the burn paste over the back of her hand. 

“So what was that?” said Hermione. “Looked like a base structure of some sort….”

“It was a spell frame,” he said. “What a Containment Charm looks like before you dress it up in Zauberspruch Latin.”

“Wow,” said Hermione, and this time she was definitely breathless. “But — but it wasn’t just a Containment Charm, was it?”

“Oh no,” said Bill, “if I’d needed a Containment Charm I would’ve just cast the standard. Nah, that was a modified version we use in the field when some bumbler triggers an hex-trap.”

“That was a bumble on my part,” Hermione said, pride stinging as much as her hand.

“Seriously, don’t blame yourself,” Bill said. He was being very thorough, rubbing burn paste into the webbing between her fingers. “Anyway, we modify the charm depending on the situation. The general idea is to contain and destroy whatever’s inside the field. You can’t use a regular Containment Charm and cast through it, though —“

“Because the barrier prevents the transmission of magic both ways,” Hermione said.

“Right. So you set up the spell frame for the Containment Charm and work into the matrix whatever spell or spells you think will best destroy the offending object.”

“I can’t imagine how many spell frames you have to memorize for that!”

“We-e-ell, it’s not memorization so much. If you know the theory, you can — you know — improvise.” Hermione laughed — apparently jazz hands were a thing in the wizarding world, too. Or maybe Bill had learned that gesture from that Muggle Egyptology student he’d dated for a while in Cairo.

“So what did you use this time?”

Bill finished rubbing the burn paste in and then put the lid back on the jar. “A blocking spell that would reflect the magic back at the wand. With some pyrotechnics rune-worked in for kicks.”

“Ah, so you were showing off on purpose,” Charlie said smugly. Bill rolled his eyes and Hermione laughed, albeit a bit shakily.

“I mean, how else would you dispose of a wooden wand?” Bill said.

“Fred would’ve approved,” came a voice from the doorway. George.

Bill’s hand tightened around Hermione’s painfully as everyone turned to see George, still in his pajamas, standing in the doorway with hunched shoulders. Mrs. Weasley bustled over and enveloped him in a hug.

Hermione averted her eyes, focusing on the ache in her hand.

“Oh, sorry, Hermione,” said Bill, loosing his grip, and he patted her on the forearm with his other hand before letting her go. “That’s you taken care of. Might be wise to pick up some more burn paste while you’re in London.”

Ron looked horrified. “You’re not still going, are you, Hermione?” he exclaimed. Mrs. Weasley bustled past him and started putting together a breakfast plate for George, who lowered himself gingerly into a chair at the far end of the table.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I? It feels better already. Anyway, now I really need a new wand.” She held her hand out and flexed it. The skin was still very tender, but it didn’t sting as it had.

“Don’t Harry her, Ron,” Ginny said, though she looked rather distracted by George’s presence. “George. You smell like dirty socks.”

“Hermione’s going to London?” he wanted to know, bracing his elbows on the table.

“I’m going with her,” Ron announced.

Hermione jerked around to glare at him. “Ron, I don’t need a babysitter,” she said, bristling.

“Not to babysit! I want to go to the — er —“

“Broom shop,” said Ginny quickly. “Me, too. We want to check out the new Peregrine 897,” she explained to their mother.

Hermione sighed. It made sense for them to come with her, she knew, but she didn’t like the feeling that the Weasleys thought she couldn’t manage on her own. “I suppose you could ogle the brooms while I’m fitted for a new wand,” she said.

“If you hold up, I’ll come with,” said Charlie. “I’ve got to get to the international Floo station anyway. Give me an hour to finish packing up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting exciting! Thank you for your comments and kudos and bookmarks. Please leave a review if you're enjoying what you're reading. This coming week is going to be very busy, since it's the first week of the semester, so the next update might be a bit late -- but comments always inspire me to write more and faster!
> 
> Algiz: a protection rune
> 
> Eihwaz: literally refers to yew, a tree associated with death. Can be interpreted as protective/defensive -- presumably because the yew/death connection came about due to an ancient practice of planting yew trees around graveyards.
> 
> Zauberspruch Latin: Zauberspruch is German for hex or spell. In this universe, it was the Germans who first started simplifying spells for the lay-wizard by creating incantations that activated certain spell frames. Prior to that, only wizards and witches who had the training and power to improvise spell frames could use magic functionally (at least in Europe). But the incantations were in Latin (albeit sometimes bastardized) to keep them a secret from Muggles, the majority of whom were unlettered. Think of it like Martin Luther translating the Bible into the common tongue for the first time. It empowered the common wizarding population but a lot of elite witches and wizards weren't pleased for various reasons.


	4. The Ward For the Incurable Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: thanks to Lavinia Lavender for beta-reading this!

As Hermione and the contingent of Weasleys stumbled one by one out of the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, on the other side of London, on a cot in a pitch-black hermetically sealed chamber within the the unfortunately-named Hildegard von Bingen's Ward for the Incurable Evil, lay Severus Snape.

The ward was in theory preferable to the maximum security ward at Azkaban, but since the Dementors had been exiled from that place, Severus wasn't sure he'd rather be locked up in the middle of St. Mungo's, where far too many of his old students were employed as healers. At least in Azkaban he would have had some peace and quiet, free from gawking mediwitches and -wizards, and he would have hardly been the most notorious person in the place. The only major advantage that the Ward for the Incurable Evil had was that he wasn't required to have an identification number tattooed on the back of his neck. He'd rather had his fill of tattoos, thank you very much.

His room – cell, whatever – was small, ostensibly almost cozy, with the regulation fresh coat of white paint on the walls, fresh sheets on the only slightly uncomfortable cot every week, a small desk and remarkably stable chair, his own private toilet, and a patch of wall, flanked by curtains, that was charmed to look like a window with a prospect of a sunny beach. That false window was what he hated most about the place for the way it blatantly defied all pretense of realism. St. Mungo's was to the west of London, the nearest beach fifty kilometers away, and certainly no beach in England had those alabaster shores, that lapis surf, the utter lack of shattered beer bottles, snarls of seaweed, empty crisp packets, and all the other unsavory detritus left by tourists and flotsam rejected by the strait. In fact, Severus strongly doubted that any beach on the planet looked like the one pictured. It was a nauseatingly idealized version of a beach, the sort of thing a tasteless bourgeois dunderhead would put up in his office, only slightly better than a velvet painting of Elvis. Had he enough faith in his wardens to suspect they possessed even the slightest capacity for guile, he would've suspected they actively meant the installation as torture. Unfortunately, he rather believed someone meant it as a device to soothe the savage breast.

That, of course, put him into an even more savage mood than usual.

When breakfast had arrived promptly at seven, he had been stretched out on his cot, head to the back wall, glaring over his toes at the door as the courtesy knock sounded and it went momentarily transparent. Beyond stood Healer Eulalie Emmenthal, the tails of her white cap starched into fiercely stiff points that clashed with her wobbly form and temperament.

“Morning, Professor,” she said briskly, a tone that also didn't suit her, but was the result of his ceaseless bullying by which he had trained her out of that irritatingly chipper disposition so common among “morning people.” “How did you sleep?”

“I didn't,” he said.

“That's a shame,” she said, not sounding like she meant it. She stooped to slide his breakfast under the door: a single Semi-Bottomless Cup of black coffee, a small carafe of milk, and two pieces of toast, buttered sides together, to give the coffee a bit of a cushion to land on. In addition, at the back of the tray, resembling nothing so much as a row of shot glasses, were his morning doses of twelve different healing potions.

“Maybe this will perk you up,” Eulalie said as she straightened, waving a bit of parchment at him. “You got a letter!”

“From my attorney, no doubt,” Snape groused, not making a move toward his breakfast. “It’d be about damn time.”

“It's from Narcissa Malfoy,” said Eulalie, eyes widening significantly.

Snape willed himself not to react. He wouldn't even blink. “Have you been reading my post, Healer Emmenthal?” he said with deceptive idleness.

“Don't be daft, her name's right there on the envelope,” she said, clearly more comfortable slipping into her old habits knowing she had something he wanted. “Wonder what she's writing  _ you _ for, though?”

“Miss Emmenthal, if you do not slide that letter in I will  _ personally _ make sure your employers find out that you passed your Potions O.W.L. only by virtue of a regrettably unassailable technicality,” he said. His voice had cracked and he’d dropped back down into his  _ sotto voce _ register.

“Alright, no need to get shirty,” Emmenthal snapped, dropping the letter along with her perky guise and kicking it under the flap with a bang. The door went opaque again, and Severus counted to ten before he exhaled, slowly unstretched himself, and retrieved the breakfast tray and letter.

Then the lights went off.  
  
  


Hermione left Ron and Ginny in the street and, having already bid goodbye to Charlie as he embarked on his return trip to Romania, she walked further down Diagon Alley toward Ollivander’s. The street wasn’t as she remembered it, the few times she’d been there shopping for school supplies. It wasn’t quite empty, but it didn’t overflow with crowds of eager shoppers. There were no displays of wares taking up the walkway from shopfront to kerb. Doors remained shut, even though it was a nice day.

She was relieved to see the sign in Ollivander’s window proclaiming “We’re open!” Except for that, however, the shop looked very much closed, with darkened windows and venetian blinds visibly askew in one of them.

She let herself into the shop and found the place empty. Shelves completely cleared, dust outlining footprints of wand boxes no longer present, the front desk bare of its stacks of invoices and ledger book, empty wand boxes scattered here and there on the floor and shelves, all furniture stripped out except what was nailed down. She squinted into the gloom. 

“Hello?” she called.

In a moment there was the sound of footsteps, and then down the spiral steps came the hunched and frail form of Ollivander. He paused when he saw her, blinking owlishly through his huge glasses.

“Miss Granger,” he said solemnly. And… that was it. No savant-like recitation of her wand details. She hesitated.

“Ah, Mr. Ollivander… do you know there’s a sign on your door that says you’re open?”

Ollivander blinked again and, apparently unsurprised, finished his descent. “Yes -- oh, yes. We are open, in fact, Miss Granger, but not at this location.” He crossed to the fireplace, his hesitant steps reminding her of the fact the fact that he had spent weeks, maybe months held captive by the Dark Lord, and had also narrowly escaped a gruesome death at Malfoy Manor the night she’d done the same.

“You can use the Floo, my dear,” he said, removing the lid to a pot that was the only thing remaining on the mantle. “Go to the Hogsmeade location. Not as… convenient for shoppers in London, I’m afraid, but… well, you see.”

She held out her good palm and accepted the handful of Floo powder he deposited there.

“There you are,” he said. “Go on, now.”

Hermione stared at the handful of dust in her hand, then at Ollivander. He looked very, very old, and very tired.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly, and threw the powder into the grate.

  
  


When she emerged from the Floo for the second time that morning, disoriented and covered in soot, she discovered another dimly-lit room, this one looking for all the world like a common shoe store. Rows of shelving units were divided and subdivided into pigeon holes, filled with wand-sized boxes and labeled meticulously. From the low, exposed ceiling beams hung intermittent guide signs: WALNUT. OAK. PINE. ELM. EXOTIC WOODS. Here and there in the aisles were tall, narrow tables, topped with signs instructing patrons to PLEASE LEAVE UNWANTED MERCHANDISE ON TABLES – DO NOT TRY TO RESHELVE!!

Hermione grew more uncomfortable by the second. Was this really like some magical shoe shop?  _ The wellies choose the wizard, Hermione! _ In spite of herself, she laughed out loud.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from the back of the shop, where a desk and cash register were almost entirely buried in sheafs of invoices, opened correspondence, damaged and empty wand boxes, pamphlets on wand care, old newspapers still secured with twine, fish and chip wrappers, and a single large perch upon which roosted a weary-looking barn owl. As Hermione turned and approached the desk, a woman entered through the door behind the register.

“Dark gods in the blood,” the witch swore, seemingly to herself, “but it weren’t never Hermione Granger!”

Hermione smoothed an errant hair back nervously. “It is, in fact. Er. I mean, I am.”

The woman was very short, almost as short as Flitwick, and her bushy black hair formed a significant part of her height. She had an overbite that reminded Hermione of hours spent in her parents’ office, and she wore utilitarian robes in a charcoal color — or perhaps they were black and she’d been dusting, Hermione couldn’t be sure. She came out from behind the counter and reached up a hand to take Hermione’s in a vigorous handshake. “It’s a rare pleasure indeed, girl. I’m sure ye must ‘ear this all the time, but thank you for your service, thank ye, thank ye.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said awkwardly. “And what’s your name?”

“Caty Queene,” said the witch, finally releasing Hermione’s hand. “I ‘ope you’ve not been waitin’ long. Shop-mindin’, you know, it takes gettin’ used to. But me uncle needed the ‘elp.”

“Your uncle — is that Ollivander?”

“By marriage,” the witch shrugged. She looked about forty years old. “Me ’usband’s Garrick Ollivander, he’s normally the one as minds the shop.”

“It looks like Mr. Ollivander is closing up shop in London.”

Queene nodded. “’Twas high time he retired. He’d started going a bit batty long ago.” She waggled her eyebrows and Hermione wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to laugh or not; fortunately, Caty Queene moved on quickly. “So ye’re in the market for a wand, then?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I lost mine. I’d been making due with a different wand in the meantime, but it really doesn’t suit me.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Queene said, sounding amused. “Ye really can’t just wave around someone else’s wand and expect to get decent results. They’re like spectacles, ye know. They’re made to focus yer own unique magical signature. Ye get an incompatible wand, ye end up strainin’ yourself. Or blowin’ yerself up! And if ye use a bad wand too long, yer own magick has to compensate so much it starts to warp. Yer mother ever tell ye not to make a face or else it’ll stick?”

“Yes….”

“Same thing happens to magick,” she said ominously.

“Good thing I came when I did, then,” replied Hermione drily.

“You  _ bet. _ Well, come over ‘ere, then, and we’ll get started.”

Hermione followed her to an open space on the shop floor and automatically extended her wand arm.

“No need for that,” said Queene, gently pushing Hermione’s arm back down. “I do things a bit different to me uncle and me ‘usband.” And she proceeded to stand back, cross her arms, and stare at Hermione.

Thirty seconds were all Hermione could stand before she burst out: “What are you doing?”

“Reading yer aura, now  _ hush _ ,” said Queene, her formidable, painted-on brows coming together and staying there. Hermione started to chew gently on the inside of her lower lip, uncomfortable under the other witch’s scrutiny. Her wand hand was tingling.

“‘Ave ye ever ‘ad any energy work done, love?” said Queene abruptly, continuing to study her closely, eyes narrowed.

Hermione blinked. “…I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Ye’re looking a bit compressed. Blocked. Studied Occlumency, have ye?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve read about it, but I’ve never studied it seriously.”

“It almost looks like ye’re blocking. Lots of negative energy in your primary stratus, but the secondary is keeping it all locked in tight.”

Hermione didn’t respond, because she couldn’t trust herself to say anything nice about  _ energy work. _

After a minute or two, Queene drew her wand out and began flicking it over Hermione’s person, keeping a keen eye on the little violet sparks it generated.

“So how long have ye been using the wrong wand wand?”

“Since mid-March,” said Hermione after a moment’s pause to count weeks. Had it really been only seven weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime -- like someone else’s life entirely. But the word Bellatrix Lestrange had engraved in her forearm was still vivid red, and she still couldn’t sleep comfortably on her back because of the dozens of wounds inflicted by shards of broken chandelier crystal.

“Hm. That’s the reason ye’re blocking, more than like. Still, a visit to an expert wouldn’t go amiss. Me sister’s a doula — she does fine energy work.”

“I’ll consider it, thank you,” said Hermione, having no intention of doing anything of the sort.

“So why’d ye decide to come in now?” Queene asked.

Hermione flinched away from a spark that lit close to her face. “I — well, I suppose I’d finally given up on the idea that my old wand will come back to me.”

Queene softened, nodding sympathetically. “Ye’ve never ‘ad to buy a different wand, ‘ave ye?”

“My old one I had since I was eleven.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find something to suit ye. There now.” Queene waved her wand, and all of the sparks that had been lingering around Hermione’s head dissipated, and then she Summoned a number of wand boxes, which came zipping toward them from all over the store. Queene caught each one dexterously.

Queene set the boxes aside to hover in mid-air next to them. “Right-o, then. Let’s try this one on for size.”

After that point, it was much as Hermione remembered her time in Ollivander’s shop, except now she was far more adept at controlling her raw magick so there were fewer instances of exploding windows and chandeliers.   
  


 

She ended up with a wand of sycamore and dragon heartstring, eleven and a half inches long. In her small hand, it looked ridiculous.

“This looks ridiculous,” Hermione said, swishing and flicking so the owl on the front desk rose up into the air. The owl seemed used to this kind of treatment and remained implacable.

Queene was watching her and tapping her cheek with one forefinger. “Ridiculous? Why?”

“It’s  _ huge! _ ”

“It’s  _ formidable, _ ” Queene corrected. “That is one o’ the most feisty wands in me entire stock. Fiery as its core. Sycamore is such an innerestin’ wood, too — I think ye’ll suit ‘im just fine.”

“ _ Him? _ ”

“Obviously,” said Queene, eyeballing Hermione’s cocked wand, and then she barked with laughter. “You be careful, though. Sycamore can get bored. But keep him reasonably engaged, and he should be no trouble at all. Sycamore wands often end up in the hands of young people destined for great things.”

Hermione made a face. Her wand hand was aching from all the exercise. “I certainly hope not. I don’t think I’m ready for any more ‘great things’ just yet. I’d quite like a bit of a holiday.”

“I’d say ye ‘aven’t much choice in the matter,” Queene shrugged. “Some people bear the weight of destiny a bit more keenly than others.  _ You _ do too, I think. I could see it in your aura earlier.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Aura reading was a topic they would have eventually gotten around to in Divination, but she had never even reached the relevant chapter in the textbook. It was, in fact, the only textbook she had not read cover to cover in her entire Hogwarts career. But she had no desire to argue with Caty Queene. She just wanted to pay up and make a stop by the bookstore before returning to Diagon Alley.

She gave the witch her seven Galleons and left the shop, waiting until the front door had closed behind her before she put the new wand in the holster that Caty Queene gave her for her “service to wizardkind.” Then she marched off down the street.

 

She didn’t have any particular book in mind when she entered Tomes and Scrolls — only the most overwhelming urge to bury herself in a stack of books and not come out until she’d thoroughly glutted herself. The mood had struck when her walk down to Ollivander’s had taken her past Flourish and Blotts. Tomes and Scrolls, however, had always been more to her liking, filled with antiques and rarities and serious,  _ scholarly _ texts. She’d spent many Hogsmeade weekends lingering in the stacks there, cross-legged on the floor in the quartos section, or paging through an out-of-print festschrift on Nicolas Flamel.

She was greeted by the bell and the almost overpowering aroma of old book. Aging leather and vellum, pungent glue, the dust of innumerable lives lived and passed on in between lines and pages… Hermione inhaled deeply, and then again, like she was coming up for air.

“Miss Granger!” 

Hermione jumped at the strident voice that split the sacred silence of the bookshop. Opposite the door, behind a shoulder-level shelving unit filled with books on xenothaumology, was Professor McGonagall. Her peaked hat was tilted at a surprisingly jaunty angle.

“Professor! You surprised me.”

“I can see that,” said McGonagall. “Where is your ginger guard, then?”

“Back in London,” said Hermione. “Looking at brooms while I nipped out to get a new wand.”

“Was there something the matter with the old one?”

Hermione, cradling her hand against her chest, told her the story of how she lost her first wand and how she gained Bellatrix Lestrange’s.

“What are your plans for Lestrange’s wand?” said McGonagall at last. “I would urge caution — the wand of Tom Riddle’s highest lieutenant would fetch a pretty price in time, if we can expect things to go the way they did after the Great War. But the potential for misuse is high.”

“No need to worry,” said Hermione. “The wand has been destroyed.”

“How?”

Hermione stilled her hands, which she had started to wring. “Bill Weasley’s work. The wand… it attacked Mrs. Weasley.”

McGonagall did not show a hint of surprise or alarm, but her lips thinned. “She is well?”

“Oh, the wand couldn’t touch her.”

“I assumed as much. And you?”

Hermione automatically flexed her injured hand. “I got a bit singed. But nothing serious.”

Without waiting for permission, McGonagall took Hermione’s hand, and she hissed when they made contact. “You’re hot as a flame,” she said. She turned Hermione’s hand palm down to examine the backs of her knuckles, the webbing between her fingers, the markings from many old scratches and scrapes. She then turned Hermione’s hand over and continued to examine her palm with the same thoroughness.

“Bill looked over it,” Hermione said. “Put some burn paste on it. He said it was fine.”

“Bill Weasley doesn’t have the sense God gave a jarvey,” McGonagall snapped. “You should’ve gone to St. Mungo’s straight away. And I expect you’ve not gone since you returned to civilization after your grand adventure?”

“I saw a healer after the battle….”

“A field medic is no substitute for a proper healer,” said McGonagall in her most severe tone. “Where is  _ your  _ sense, Miss Granger?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” said Hermione, flinching under her professor’s displeasure.

“Not as sorry as you’ll be in three days if you don’t see a healer right away. I’ll take you to St. Mungo’s.”

“But Professor, my friends -- they’re all waiting for me back in Diagon Alley!”

“Send a Patronus then!” exclaimed McGonagall. “Don’t make me take out my wand, Miss Granger.”

Hermione didn’t. Reluctantly sh let McGonagall Side-Along her back to London.

 

They landed in the Apparition antechamber of St. Mungo’s. Around them other witches and wizards arrived and departed with resounding cracks that made Hermione wince and shudder. She would’ve covered her ears but McGonagall had her by the upper arm as if marching her to detention. They pushed past a distressed man with a marmot for an arm to get a look at the hospital directory.

“Fourth floor, right,” said McGonagall, before ushering Hermione to the lift.

“There was a typo on the board,” said Hermione as they squeezed into the lift behind a crowd of eleven exactly identical small girls in blonde pigtails.

“A what?”

“It said ‘Hildegard von Bingen's Ward for the Incurable Evil.’ Shouldn’t it have been ‘Hildegard von Bingen's Ward for the Incurabl _ y _ Evil’?”

“What? No,” said Professor McGonagall, but whatever she planned to say after that was forestalled by the eleven pigtailed girls addressing their panicked-looking mother in a terrible, single voice. 

“Mummy, can we get an ice lolly from Florean Fortescue's after?”

“Mummy doesn’t know, Alicia -- please keep quiet until we see the nice healer!”

“But Mummy,” said all eleven girls at once, “I  _ want  _ an ice lolly!”

“Mummy can’t afford ice lollies for all eleven of you!” said the woman, who was starting to hyperventilate.

The lift came to a stop (“Level Four: Curse Removal, Hex-Fixes, Un-Mis-Spelling, Disenchantment”) and McGonagall led Hermione off. 

“What  _ is  _ the Ward for the Incurable Evil?” Hermione asked as McGonagall led her to the healer’s station in the center of the entryway. Men and women in severely starched caps bustled back and forth, white and blue robes spotless, hands glowing slightly with the disinfectant cream they constantly rubbed into their skin. 

“It’s the maximum security infirmary,” said McGonagall. “Healer? Healer, a word if you would.”

The healer behind the reception desk turned to greet them. “Professor McGonagall! Visiting someone in the ward?”

McGonagall sniffed. “I’ve a student with a curse injury. This is Hermione Granger.”

The healer’s eyes widened, and he paled behind his freckles. “Hermione Granger! I -- I see. Professor, was there an appointment made…?”

“This is an emergency,” said McGonagall tartly.

The healer looked doubtful. “I’m sorry, Professor, but you’ll have to go through processing like everyone else. If you like I can arrange an escort to the Magical Urgency ward.”

“If we’d wanted M-Urgency, we’d have gone to M-Urgency,” McGonagall snapped. “Miss Granger had a serious incident with a wrong wand this morning, and on top of that she’s not yet seen a proper healer since the night of the final battle.”

The healer was quite white but he stood his ground, and Hermione felt a surge of admiration for his nerve. “Professor, I wish I could accomodate you, but I simply….”

“I’ll just send Ron and Ginny a Patronus, then,” Hermione muttered to her professor, taking a few steps away to let McGonagall handle it. McGonagall barely noticed her, focusing all her attention on the healer.

Hermione took out her new wand slowly, all eleven inches of it, and reminded herself to use the Continental grip instead of her usual underhand one. Then she summoned up her standard happy memory and cast.

_ Nothing. _ Not even an iridescent fizzle. She blushed red, glancing at McGonagall, who didn’t appear to have noticed, as entrenched as she was in her contretemps with the healer. Flexing her aching fingers around the wand, Hermione cast again, this time a little more firmly.  But once again there was no cheerful otter springing forth to greet her and gambol about. 

She was aware of McGonagall’s eyes on her this time. “Sorry -- a little rusty. Professor….”

McGonagall regarded her closely over the rim of her spectacles. “Focus on your joy, Hermione.”

Hermione breathed deeply.  _ Joy.  _

What did she feel joyful about? 

She shut her eyes to concentrate and stretched out her wand arm.  _ “Expecto patronum! _ ”

Something deep inside her wrenched sideways and snapped. It was like a vein that traveled from her palm to her heart had been severed. Something terribly important spilled out, unmoored, set loose, sending a hive of pins and needles racing through her body, scouring her insides. Her hand blazed with electric pain, and for the second time that day she felt a wand betray her. 

When her knees gave out, she barely registered that it was Professor McGonagall who caught her.  
  
  
  


It had been three hours since Healer Emmenthal had left him in the dark. Snape had taken his potions and eaten his breakfast, letting his fingers and his nose guide him. The Semi-Bottomless Cup of coffee sat on the floor next to his bed, just within arm’s reach. The letter was folded and carefully tucked into his shirt pocket, where he resisted the urge to check it occasionally to make sure it was still there.

This far underground, when there were no actual windows, it was very, very dark.

He’d shouted when the lights first went out, but there had been no response. But he had gotten precious little chance to vent in the past week and a half, and now that he had the opportunity, he howled until his throat felt like it was cracking. He’d kept shouting until his voice gave out completely. 

It hadn’t taken long. The damage done to his throat had been catastrophic, and magic wasn’t a cure-all — it had taken a team of healers to salvage what was left of his vocal chords after the venom had eaten through them. Even with the gallons of potions they’d poured down his throat since his arrival in the hospital, he hadn’t been able to speak until two days ago.

Now he was lying in bed, worrying that he’d ruptured his fragile larynx, dying to know what was in Narcissa Malfoy’s letter, loathe to have to admit it to himself, and seething over Eulalie Emmenthal.

He began a painstaking catalogue of her girlhood crimes. She’d melted four cauldrons during her time under his tutelage, twice because she’d let her sloppily-knotted school tie dip into the muck she’d been brewing. The third time, which he remembered most vividly, the cauldron hadn’t melted so much as violently erupted and  _ then  _ melted. Amazingly, no one had been injured, not even Emmenthal -- she’d been on the other side of the room washing her silver shears and ignoring her overheating potion.

By far greater an infraction was when she contaminated his entire store of beetles’ eyes with the only damn ingredient that  _ reacted  _ with them. 

The two students within that blast radius were drenched in orange slime that left a dense rash of wriggling, worm-like protrusions in its wake. The protrusions had lengthened at the rate of a centimeter a second until the children couldn’t move beneath the weight of them, until each was more slithering worm than child -- until the protrusions began to blacken and moulder away, the process of decay set to fast forward. The process had taken no more than four minutes, and in those four minutes the protrusions had grown fifteen meters long, rotted, withered away to ash, finally leaving the children’s bodies covered in black pitted marks as large in diameter as his pinky finger. The children were insensate, two little bodies prone on the floor. The rest of the class had bolted when he’d shouted for them to go, go get help, get Madame Pomfrey, get the headmaster --

Rarely had he felt so helpless in his life. For a moment, he’d not known where to begin. He’d been rooted to the spot, as if magically stuck there, barely able to breathe. Now, waiting in the dark, not knowing when he’d be relieved, consumed with fury at the injustice of it, the  _ unfairness _ of his fate, the same hopelessness began to gnaw at him again. Could it be that the decisions he’d made as an idiot teenager had led him to this place? Had he given up all right to personal agency at seventeen, when he’d taken the Mark? Had he not yet paid his due -- through the nose?

That was when the door exploded inward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I love comments!
> 
> Garrick Ollivander is out sick. Obviously his wife kept her maiden name.
> 
> Prof McG might seem a little harsh here; at least she does to me. I just finished reading "The Cursed Child" and (no spoilers) was surprised and displeased at her behavior toward Hermione... but it reminded me how severe she tends to be, so I wrote her accordingly.


	5. Malpractice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY! Real life gets in the way sometimes and there were problems with this chapter that took some time to sit down and figure out. 
> 
> In this chapter you'll note that my HP headcanon picks and chooses what it will: Hermione's "mudblood" scar is incorporated from the movieverse, as are the chizpurfles from Fantastic Beasts, but I reject Alan Rickman's aged Snape, placing his birthdate as January 9, 1960.

_1992_

“Why don’t you contact the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?” was the first thing that came out of her mouth, quite shrilly, as she halted in the doorway to the second dungeon. She sank her teeth into her lower lip and clenched her fists in the folds of the protective robe her professor had given her to wear.

He swept past her into the dim room, flicking his wand at the stone torchieres. Flames kindled in them reluctantly, as if they begrudged him his irritable attitude.  One actually failed altogether to light, and it required another incantation from him, accompanied by a nasty downward slash, to terrify it into compliance. _He makes even fire nervous,_ Hermione thought, and felt the half-hysterical urge to giggle.

“Don’t loiter there in the doorway, girl,” he snapped, and she scampered in, pulling the robe around her tight. Visions of creepy-crawly things skittering up her arms and legs set her heart pounding, but disobeying Professor Snape, or slowing him down, rubbed so strongly against her grain that the pressure from him to comply didn’t really cause much of an inner battle with her anxiety about the chizpurfles.

And yet the anxiety remained.

She shook herself. They’re just _bugs,_ she told herself firmly. No, _not_ bugs – they were actually a kind of crustacean, which she was interested to discover in an annotated copy of _Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them _ at the library earlier that afternoon. Hermione couldn’t figure out why these particular crustaceans set her on edge, and consequently she was also in a very bad mood indeed.

“I read that more severe outbreaks should be dealt with by the Pest Sub-Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” she said cautiously, watching him investigate a stack of cauldrons on a workbench, separating them and probing their depths with the glowing tip of his wand. “And you said there’d been another outbreak this summer, and that you had trouble getting rid of it, so, well –“

He turned on her. “Please, _do_ enlighten me, Miss Granger. What else have you _read_ about these pests?”

She swallowed. “They’re classified as beast, sir, commonly found in the fur and feathers of Crups and Augerys. The Ministry gives them a double-X rating – harmless and/or may be domesticated.”

“And yet you’re trembling in your socks.”

“They’re th-thaumavores,” she said, stumbling slightly over the word, which she’d read dozens of times but had never spoken out loud. “They feed on magic. They swarm around cauldrons that have been improperly cleaned.”

“Precisely.” Snape beckoned her closer, and she finally approached, tension tightening her stride, as he tipped a size-four silver cauldron toward her so she could peer inside. “Does that look properly cleaned to you?”

She went up on tiptoe to get a better look inside, and then she glanced up at him, nervously pushing her hair back behind her ears. “Not really.”

“What is the proper method for cleaning silver cauldrons?”

“Silver cauldrons must be polished to a mirror-shine after cleaning,” she said, in such a cadence that it was apparent she was parroting _him_ and not a book she had read.

“Indeed,” he sneered. “It’s hardly a _complex_ process, requiring a minimal attention to detail and elbow grease. And yet amazingly, the pack of blithering idiots to whom the task usually falls requires a degree of supervision hitherto unprecedented in my tenure.”

His tirade hardly seemed to require a response, so Hermione kept silent while Snape muttered something under his breath about _inbreeding._

“Is it true, sir,” she said after a moment, only her force of will keeping the tremor out of her small voice, “that they will eat right through the core of a wand? The chipfurzles, not the idiots,” she added hastily at his sudden glare.

“ _Miss_ Granger, surely you can’t mean to imply by your sniveling behavior that you, a _daring_ Gryffindor, are afraid of some harmless magical fleas?”

Hermione set her jaw. “No, sir. I’m not afraid.” If she said it firmly enough, maybe it would be true.

His lip curled. He uncorked one of the several bottles he’d picked up on the way out of his office earlier.  “Prove it then, and get to work.”

Although Snape was clearly upset about the state of the cauldrons, Hermione spent the rest of the evening scrubbing the floors, paying particular attention to the corners and cracks in the floor around the work benches and counters and sink where potions residue might be prone to accumulating despite Snape’s own meticulous cleaning habits. (Those habits didn’t seem to extend to his personal hygiene, she noted mentally, not for the first time. His unshaven jaw accentuated the prematures lines engraved around his mouth and nose )

Snape himself stood at one of the work tables and inspected the rest of his cauldron supply and gathered up the glassware out of a cabinet that had obvious signs of chipfurzle infestation. Occasionally he came to loom over her and observe her at work; Hermione, wounded at the insinuation that _she_  needed constant supervision like the “blithering idiots” he mentioned, only scrubbed harder.

Whatever she was doing seemed to be satisfactory. Although he said nothing about her work, after the first hour of intermittent hovering, Snape swept out of the room, promising – rather ominously, Hermione thought, and squelched a shudder – that he would soon return.

It felt like she had been scrubbing cauldrons and stonework for years. Where her arm wasn’t numb, it tingled and burned and throbbed. Her hand cramped constantly, sending spines of agony shooting up into her shoulder. And the pins-and-needles sensation felt like a thousand chizpurfles scurrying over her skin.

And then she blinked, and the dungeon was gone.  


 

_1998_

“Ma’am, you cannot enter this cell --”

“-- strictly no access to civilians --”

There was a resounding crack — a warning shot. “Hands off, healer, or you will get the pointy end!”

At the sound of approaching voices, Severus had thrown himself into a defensive crouching position in the corner next to the bed. He had no wand, but he’d not grown up a scrappy Cokeworth lad for naught; he still had his fists and his bared teeth. Weak as he was, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

But those weapons were no match for the force of nature that billowed into the room, seeming to bring with it the power of a full gale. The lights blazed and Severus was momentarily blinded, and when his pupils adjusted, he saw —

“Ma’am, I _insist —_ “

In the doorway stood a woman, short and sturdy, arms titled out from her body as if to block any from entering behind her. “Half a month you’ve had him here — half a month, and no barrister has come to call.”

“He’s been _ill,_ Madame Lao, very ill —“

She swept forward into the room, finally allowing the healers and orderlies to swarm in behind her. Three came for Severus straight away, hauling him to his feet and Binding him to the bed so he couldn’t move. He kept his eyes on the woman. The lines around her eyes were manifold and deep, but her posture was erect and her movements graceful, almost sprightly.

“That is hardly necessary,” said Madame Lao from her position near the door. “The man is unarmed.”

“No offense,” said one of the orderlies — a burly one named Chester Cheswick — “but this _man_ murdered Albus Dumbledore in cold blood.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Madame Lao frostily. “There, you’ve done more than enough. Why don’t the three of you go fetch another chair so Professor Snape and I can talk like civilized people?”

Severus didn’t see her cast a spell, didn’t hear her murmur an incantation, but the speed with which the orderlies whisked themselves away suggested they were aided by some strange magic unique to the old woman. He watched as she moved forward and spun the chair and the desk to the middle of the cell with a wave of her wand. She perched upon the edge of the chair primly, sweeping wrinkles out of her robes.

“Madame Lao,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”

“I can see you’re tied up at the moment,” she said blandly, but there was a sly look in her eye. She tossed her hair back — it was as bright as a new sickle — and set a slim attache on the desk before her.

Although this was the first time they’d introduced themselves, it wasn’t the first time Severus had seen her. Over the years he had spotted her entering or exiting Malfoy Manor a half-dozen times, enough to recognize her as Lucius and Narcissa’s barrister. The memory recalled other, darker ones, and with hidden effort Severus maintained his unblinking focus on his visitor.

Lao Fei was an unusual choice, especially for the Malfoys. He could tell at first glance: she wore high-collared robes of a luxurious, snow-white brocade open over a grey Muggle pantsuit. That piqued his interest, though, in a way that cut through the anger and the frustration and the encroaching despair. If the Malfoys were so bold as to put their fates — and gold — in the hands of someone with obvious ties to Muggledom… _well._

“It’s a fine thing, Severus Snape, and very fortunate for you that Mr. Shacklebolt has been so proactive about reforming the Wizengamot,” she said, snapping open her Muggle attache and withdrawing a notebook and a pen. Severus studied her impassively as she set out the instruments of her profession. Her face was soft, skin powdery white, very round and with cheeks like apples, and behind her huge round glasses, her narrow eyes were very black and very keen. Eventually, she fixed him with that black, keen gaze.

“My arrival comes as a surprise, I see,” she said. “Do I take it, then, that you have not yet received word from the Malfoy estate?”

 _The letter._ His mind went to his breast pocket. He’d completely forgotten about it. “I do apologize. I haven’t had a chance to read it.”

She raised a single, pencil-thin eyebrow. “May I ask why not?”

“It’s a long story.”

“My fee is hourly and the Malfoys are paying, Professor Snape.”

“It’s just ‘mister,’” he said. “I am no longer employed by Hogwarts.”

“You have a Mastery in the study of potions, do you not?”

“‘Master’ is a rather ostentatious title, given the state and setting in which I presently find myself.”

Lao Fei smiled thinly. “At present I believe you retain your title and membership to the guild. Let us not undermine your authority as a man of letters unless absolutely necessary, Master Snape.”

Severus sighed. He would’ve rubbed his forehead if he weren’t Bound to the edge of the cot.

The door opened without warning, and Chester Cheswick lumbered in with the chair Madame Lao had requested. She thanked him and, once he had exited, waved the chair over to the other side of the desk. She brushed her wand through the air, and Severus felt his Bindings fall away.

“I think that’s quite against the rules,” said Severus as he stood and stretched.

“I will make a note to mention your devotion to protocol to the Supreme Mugwump,” said Lao Fei, again with no intonation whatsoever. “Now perhaps, Master Snape, you had better read that letter.”

  


“Fool child. _Fool_ child.”

Everything was white. Bright, and piercingly so; she felt the light entering every pore of her body like needles. Whispering voices irritated the periphery of her senses. Her eyes shifted beneath their lids, and she moaned, gritting her teeth against it. Everything hurt.

“Fool child,” she heard again, this time from very close by. She tried to open her eyes but they felt glued shut.

“Professor, _if_ you please, I simply _cannot_ —”

There was some shuffling, a breath of air across her face, and the spell: “ _Ennervate_.”

Her eyes flew open and the white light blinded her.

The same voice that woke her incanted again: “ _Nox!_ ” The lights dimmed, and Hermione cautiously opened her eyes.

Above her stood the outline of a tall and bony figure. She couldn’t make out any other distinguishing features; it felt like her eyes were incapable of focusing. But she was certain the dark blur to the bony figure’s right was Professor McGonagall.

“My dear gel. Welcome back to the land of the living,” said the bony figure. “It does one good to see you with us again. But your esteemed professor and headmistress is correct: you have been a very foolish gel indeed. Using the wand that belonged to the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange was bad enough, but not coming immediately to the hospital? What were you thinking?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her eyes were finally beginning to adjust and she squinted up at the man, trying to distinguish his face. His voice sounded familiar.

“I’ve been told you are clever, Miss Granger, the cleverest witch of your age, but I must say I’m rather disappointed in you.”

She could see the sheen of his round eyes, which presided over a prominent beaky nose.

“St John, leave the development of Miss Granger’s character to me,” said McGonagall in a tone like acid. “Your purview is her health alone.”

St John cleared his throat with a croaking sound. “Yes, well — Professor, as pleased as I am to see you again, I must gently asked you to leave, as you are neither parent nor guardian to this girl. And a healer must maintain his patient’s confidentiality. Yes, Minerva, go on, then.” He shooed her out of the room, oblivious to a scowl that would have withered anyone more perceptive. “Now then, Miss Granger.  Let’s have a look at you, since you’re awake. _Lumos!_ ”

Hermione squinted and blinked against the glare. The healer stooped until his beaky nose was very near hers and he peered into her eyes one at a time.

“Miss Granger, how do you feel?”

Hermione followed the light of his wand with her eyes and cleared her throat. “I’m fine. Never better.”

“Balderdash,” said the healer. “You’re all over contusions — literally black and blue. I found evidence of an old concussion in addition to dozens of lacerations and puncture wounds, primarily on your back. Burn and hex marks on your arms, not to mention this.” He turned her arm so Bellatrix Lestrange’s mark was exposed to the light. “Oh yes, your dour schoolteacher was moved almost to tears at that sight, from which I gather you had not mentioned it on your way here!”

Hermione managed to yank her wrist out of his grip. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I haven’t consented to this examination. I _don’t_ consent to this examination.”

“Dearie! It is in the best interests of Wizarding Britain that you are in good health. Now, I found evidence of attempts at first aid —“

“Attempts?!” said Hermione, jerking away from his wand as he started to perform diagnostic charms. The tickle of his magic made her flesh creep and she shuddered bodily.

“— Yes, Miss Granger; you may be a terribly clever schoolgirl but you are no certified _healer,”_ the man snapped, holding her in place with a grip like a vise. “Little Gryffindors, always so convicted of their own superiority.” He focused for a moment on the diagnostic runes flickering through the air and frowned. “As if no greater authority ever trod upon the earth,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He banished the runes, apparently not finding what he hoped. Then he flicked his wand and summoned to the bedside a tray cluttered with bits of gauze, strips of cloth bandages, a glass atomizer marked _Cleanser,_ and a ceramic jar labeled _Bruise Paste._

He started first with her arm, holding it out by the wrist while he sprayed the cleanser over her newer scratches and wounds. It stung like Muggle disinfectant, and Hermione tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, but his grip was too firm. “Most Gryffindors never get quite up to snuff for those advanced degrees, you know. Oh, don’t hiss at me, pet, it’s not an indictment of your _book learning._ It’s just that you don’t have the self-awareness to realize when you’re bloody wrong.”

He started on her other arm, the one with Bellatrix’s mark on it. He paid close attention to those scars, spraying them liberally with the cleanser, ignoring Hermione’s protests.

“Gryffindors make terrible academics for that reason,” he continued in a conversational tone as he worked. “Best to leave that to Ravenclaws, who learn from their mistakes as much as from books.”

Hermione gasped. She suddenly recognized him — the old crow from Fred’s funeral who would’t stop nattering on about Ravenclaw’s diadem.

“And that’s to say nothing of a certain lack of humility among Gryffindors,” he said, ignoring her reaction completely as he set aside the atomizer. “You take a tumble and your pride is more grievously injured than anything else…” He cast a charm at the gauze and bandages, which leapt into the air and, none too gently, wrapped themselves around the still-healing wound. “Ignorance can be excused because it can be corrected, but stupidity is a hanging offense,” he said, guiding the bandages with his wand. “And pride is the greatest stupidity of all.”

He sniffed disdainfully and drew back. “Hold still, you silly chit.” He proceeded to uncork a wide-mouthed jar of bruise cream. “If I may.”

“You may not!”

“Don’t be difficult, my dear,” he said with a half-chuckle. “Now, let’s see those knees of yours.” He clucked his tongue as he drew up the hem of the infirmary robe she was wearing. “What a sight.”

They were indeed; her knees had taken on an almost grey-green cast after months of rooting around in the dirt and taking several rough falls on flagstones. But instead of having a palliative effect, his hands on her skin made her feel physically sick. She tried to kick at him but he leaned on one of her legs and kept her still as he massaged the cream into her bruises.

Hermione felt her anger billowing into an incandescent rage. When she had been a small girl, such a temper would have activated her untrained magic. Her parents were driven nearly to their wits’ end by inexplicable phenomena that accompanied her younger self’s occasional tantrum. Most of those uncontrolled bursts of magic had ceased once she began her formal magical training. Even so, she felt something was very wrong when she couldn’t feel her magic at least tremble with the force of her emotion.

“I said you may _not_ ,” she said, shaking, still trying to squirm out of his grasp. “Get _off_ me. Get _off,_ I said --”

“Miss Granger,” said the healer coldly, briefly ceasing his ministrations to meet her eyes. “You are my patient, and I will see you cured.”

“Cured? Of _what?”_ she exclaimed.

He blinked at her, and then he chuckled. “Why, my dear gel, haven’t you realized? Your magic. It’s almost utterly depleted.”

Hermione gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, before she took a deep breath and bellowed, “PROFESSOR McGONAGALL!”

  
  


Severus Snape finally held the letter in his hands. It was a single sheet of white laid cotton with the Malfoy crest engraved at the top in silver. Narcissa’s hand was girlish, all high ascenders and narrow, irregular loops inscribed in an iron gall ink that she’d used religiously since her school days.

The letter was dated May the eleventh. That would have been – four days ago? Time seemed to disappear in here _._ He began to read the short letter.  


 

> _Dear Severus,_
> 
> _You can expect a visit from your barrister by the week’s end. She is the best to be found in Europe, and we are fortunate to enjoy her loyalty. When Lucius had his troubles with the Gaming Commissioner, it was Madam Lao who had the case turned out. But I’m sure you remember that. You’ve always had a mind like a Devil’s Snare._
> 
> _But Severus, I beg of you: do not let your sense of honor tempt you to sacrifice yourself. I know you as well as any of us could. I know that you blame yourself for a great many evils. Whether or not you truly deserve to do penance for them, I beg you to cooperate with Madame Lao. She tells me it’s likely that Draco will be joined as a defendant in your case, at least for one of the charges. Our trials are not yet over. He owes you a life debt, as do I, and I will do everything within the not insignificant area of my influence to help you achieve whatever it is you wish. But this case cannot be resolved in our favor without your cooperation. If you ever loved your friends the Malfoys — though Merlin knows you have had precious little reason sometimes — show us now._
> 
> _In good faith,_
> 
> _Narcissa_

  
He read the letter over once more, committing it to memory as was his old habit, and then he looked up at Madam Lao, who was writing on her large block of white paper. Severus cleared his throat and she glanced up at him, her features schooled into a bland expression.

“Well?” he said.

“Well?” she returned pleasantly. “You’ve been through this process before.”

He scowled. “That was sixteen years ago. And the last time I went through this I was in Azkaban for most of the time.”

She nodded. Memory loss wasn’t uncommon among witches and wizards who spent any extended period of time in the wizarding prison. “You may be interested to know, Master Snape, that the process is undergoing some changes in the hands of the new administration. Not as quickly as some of us would prefer,” she amended, tilting her chin up with a sniff. “My first goal is to ensure your rights are observed.”

He scoffed. “Rights? I don’t have _rights._ I’m a Death Eater. I’m the murderer of Albus Dumbledore. For some acts there is no forgiveness.”

“The Wizengamot is not in the business of forgiveness, you are correct,” said Madam Lao. “Fortunately for you, I’m not angling for forgiveness.”

“Fortunately?” His disdain and disbelief were even more audible, if that were possible.

“Fortunately,” she repeated.

“What are you angling for, then, as you put it?”

Her thin smile sharpened, suddenly no longer bland, but sticking in his heart alongside that splinter of hope that he had never been able to dislodge, no matter how much he worried it. “Justice, Master Snape.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: this story is set precisely according to the calendar of 1998. The final battle started at midnight on May 2, a Saturday. Snape was arrested shortly after the battle ended. Fred was buried a week and a half after his death on Wednesday the 13th. This chapter takes place on May 15, a Friday; Narcissa wrote (or at least dated) her letter on Tuesday the 12th. This will be more important later once characters start writing to each other, but it's largely due to my complete lack of chill when it comes to calendar dates.
> 
> Did you enjoy the chapter? Have questions? Comments? Complaints? Lay 'em on me. Just click the review button. :)


	6. The Hollow Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I'm not 100% satisfied with this chapter, mostly because writing Ron is exhausting. Feel free to offer concrit in the comments. Thanks as always to Lavinia Lavender for lending her beta reading prowess to what otherwise would be a trainwreck.

By the time Ron and Ginny burst into the ward, Hermione was having her vitals checked again by a young female healer. Healer St John hadn’t exactly been given the boot, but at Professor McGonagall’s insistence (and her influence in wizarding Britain wasn’t inconsequential) he had been relegated to “senior advisor” on Hermione’s case.

The door banged open, and Ron shouldered his way into the small room, followed shortly by his sister. Both were visibly out of breath.

“ _Hermione_ ,” Ron exclaimed. “Just got McGonagall’s Patronus — middle of Florean’s — said it was an emergency _—_ what happened?”

The healer glanced at Hermione, who nodded to assure her that these were the visitors she was expecting. “It’s nothing, really, nothing,” she said. Ginny snorted.

“You’re in St. Mungo’s in your own private room.” She  gestured at the scrubbed white walls, the tall linen cupboard, the worn and dingy chairs, the closed mauve drapes. “It can’t be _nothing._ ”

“Just over-exertion. Professor McGonagall insisted,” Hermione said.

“What happened? The Patronus didn’t give any details,” said Ron.

Hermione glanced at the healer again. She hadn’t caught her name, but she looked a little familiar, and Hermione thought she might have been a seventh-year when Hermione first arrived at Hogwarts. “I, ah, collapsed in the middle of a bookshop.”

“Well, that’s certainly in-character for you,” Ginny said, whereupon Ron dug his elbow into her side. “Ow! I meant the bookshop bit, you prat.”

Ron, who seemed to be wrestling internally with something, finally appeared to snap. Moving toward the bed, he waved at the healer and said, sounding flustered, “I’m sorry, can I —“

The healer looked up. “Of course, yes. I’m just casting monitors and diagnostics.” She gestured toward Hermione, and Ron rushed forward to seat himself on the edge of the mattress with such eagerness that the bed scraped audibly across the floor.

“It’s really nothing?”

Hermione fluttered her hand lightly. “It’s _nothing_ , Ron, honestly. I’m just worn out. You know, none of us ever did go see a proper healer after the battle. I’m sure it would do you wonders to check in for a thorough exam.”

The dismissive tone came almost too easily. She half-believed it, herself. Ginny, however, standing behind her brother, narrowed her eyes. And Ron wasn’t entirely convinced by her breezy dismissal, either. “You said you collapsed _._ Did you faint?”

“Ron, you couldn’t sound more like Mum if you tried,” Ginny said from across the room, where she’d just planted herself into a waiting chair in teal and mauve stripe.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione insisted as the healer muttered observations to a regulation Quick-Quotes Quill that scurried over a roll of parchment on the bedside table. “I just exhausted myself trying to perform some complicated magic with a new wand. I’ll be alright once I rest up a little. Look — look at this, they healed up my hands.” She stretched her arms out so he could see the backs of both her hands, where the scratches and scrapes had faded away to the pale brown of old scars.

Ron took the bait. “Oh — oh, yes, I see,” he said, faltering, and she knew that he hadn’t even noticed how bad her hands had looked before. “Well done, then.”

“So how was Diagon Alley?” Hermione asked, glancing between Ron and Ginny. “Buy anything good?”

“Nah,” said Ron. “That’s one thing that’s not changed: I’m still skint. But you said you got a new wand?”

Hermione inclined her head. “Sycamore and dragon heartstring, eleven point five inches long.”

“Blimey, that’s a step up from your old one!” said Ron. “Well, let’s see it, then.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t have it right now. They took it away to do some tests.”

Ron’s brow wrinkled with deeper concern. “What kind of tests? I thought you said it was just exhaustion.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing more,” said Hermione defensively, “but they want to rule out any other possibilities.” She was beginning to feel like she was unraveling at the edges along with her story.

“Such as?” Ginny demanded.

“You saw what happened this morning,” said Hermione. “They wanted to make sure there aren’t any problems with the wand.”

Ginny gasped — an odd kind of hiccuping sound, as if she’d just remembered she’d left the pilot light on at home. Ron whipped around to look at her, and Hermione felt her stomach sour.

“Hermione — ” Ginny began, but then she bit her tongue, seeming to think better of what she wanted to say.

“What?” said Ron. Hermione tensed further, but before he could prod Ginny out of her silence, three knocks sounded at the door.

Professor McGonagall came in, not a hair out of place beneath her broad-brimmed pointed hat. Still, she managed to look slightly flustered when she saw the Weasleys had arrived.

“Mr. Weasley, Miss Weasley,” she said perfunctorily before turning to Hermione. “Miss Granger, I’ve spoken with Healer St John. You’ll be staying here overnight.”

The three burst into simultaneous protest.

“But Professor —”

 _“_ You can’t just make her —”

 _“_ I feel fine, honestly — ”

McGonagall’s icy brogue cut through the noise as decisively as a knife. “You’ll be staying here and I’ll brook no argument. Mr. and Miss Weasley, if you cannot resign yourselves to the fact, I’ll insist you leave. Miss Granger is _ill_ and needs to rest. The both of you should be ashamed of yourselves, interfering with her medical care.”

Hermione cleared her throat. Inside she felt like she was trapped in a Devil’s Snare, and the more she wrestled with whether to speak up, the more tongue-tied she felt. But her professor and her friends were staring at her now, and she swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and spoke.

“Ron, Ginny — you needn’t stay here. That is — what I mean to say is, you should go back to the Burrow. I’ll be in good hands,” she said firmly over Ron’s protest, over her own anxieties. “I can’t imagine what your mum is going through right now; we were supposed to be back two hours ago.”

“Oh,” said Ginny sheepishly, while Ron suddenly assumed the aspect of a deer in the headlights. “We forgot about that….”

“I had assumed as much,” said Hermione, rather more severely than she felt, but she didn’t have the energy to soothe anyone else’s rumpled feathers. “Visiting hours are…?” She glanced inquisitively at the healer.

“Until seven,” said the healer promptly, not making the slightest effort to act as if she wasn’t hearing everything that was going on.

“Thank you. You could pop in again later if you wanted, but I’m told I still have tests.”

“Better not come back until the morning,” said the healer apologetically.

Ron’s freckles were standing out more than usual.

“Ron — could you — d’you think you could try to contact Harry?” Hermione said.

Ron nodded.

“Try Patronus. Or official post owl, their tracking charms are well-maintained,” she said. “If not that, then —“

“We’ll take care of it,” Ginny said.

Hermione smiled wanly. “Thank you.”

After a goodbye that was stilted somewhat by the effect of McGonagall’s presence, the two Weasleys left the room. The door shut behind them with a bang that emphasized the void they left behind.

McGonagall, meanwhile, did not move from her post at the end of the bed. “Miss Granger, as little as I like to leave you here in this state, I have urgent business back at the school.”

“By all means,” Hermione began to interrupt.

“But,” said McGonagall, “I must contact your parents and let them know about your condition. Where shall I send the owl?”

Hermione was amazed at how quickly her insides turned over and curdled. McGonagall hadn’t even finished asking her question before Hermione felt her forehead prickle with sweat. How could she possibly tell McGonagall that she’d —? What would she say? What would she _do?_

“I — I’d rather not bother them with this, Professor.”

“ _Miss_ Granger. You have yet to matriculate, and until the end of the school year, I’m obligated to act on your behalf in loco parentis —“

“Yes, of course, Professor, but what I mean to say is that they’re abroad right now,” said Hermione. Her hands worried knots in the bed sheets. “It would be difficult to reach them, and I don’t want to disturb them just now.” There. That wasn’t a lie at all. It _would_ be hard to reach them, since she’d lost track of them once they landed in Brisbane.

“They could hardly fault you for ruining their holiday by informing them you’ve taken ill!” McGonagall said reasonably.

“I didn’t mean to imply that,” Hermione said. “It’s just that there’s no reason to worry them about this at this exact moment. They aren’t expecting me until June, after all —”

“School policy dictates we must inform parents whenever a student is injured, ever since that Yarrow boy went bathing skyclad in the lake and was half-strangled by a grindylow. Oh, that was years before your time, but none of the staff at the time will ever forget it…. I’m sorry, but it’s my duty as interim headmistress.”

Hermione swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a pause. “But I simply don’t know how to contact them right now.”

McGonagall’s thin lips nearly disappeared in her displeasure. “Miss Granger, I wasn’t born yesterday. What aren’t you telling me?”

Hermione couldn’t respond. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap on the white hospital linens, and then back up to meet McGonagall’s unfaltering gaze.

 _What kind of Gryffindor are you?_ The thought sprang to mind, feeling foreign and chilly and altogether deserved. She bit her lip, trying to figure out how she could deflect McGonagall’s interrogation, buy herself some time.

 _Lies,_ that interior voice whispered. _Have the guts to be honest with yourself, at the very least. You’re thinking of lying to her._

Well, maybe she was. If she told McGonagall what she’d done, the professor’s wrath would be… justified. And enormous.

_But you have to tell her sometime._

Maybe not, she thought.

_You think you can track down your parents and restore their memories, Bob’s your uncle?_

I’ll manage. I’ll manage somehow.

McGonagall was staring at her with steel in her eyes, and Hermione realized that the healer had retreated to the corner to jot things down on her chart, pointedly giving them space. She’d probably been one of McGonagall’s students, Hermione thought, and this was likely quite uncomfortable for her, too. Hermione could feel the suspicion and disappointment radiating off of the interim headmistress like heat waves.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Look, the only thing I can suggest is -- to send a letter by Muggle post. They’re certain to have hired a forwarding service, they always do whenever they go on holiday. It’s not ideal -- it’ll take longer -- but it’s the best I can think of.”

The steel did not leave McGonagall’s eyes, but her thin lips relaxed somewhat. “Very well, Miss Granger, I shall do just that. Good afternoon. Healer, please keep me informed of any changes to her condition.”

The healer whipped around to agree, and McGonagall swept out of the room.

  


Madam Lao had departed, leaving Snape with a promise to return on the following day to begin work on his case, and a warning to expect the Ministry to order interrogation as soon as possible. _It’s of utmost importance that you resist their questioning and insist on being provided with counsel,_ she’d told him. _According to enforcement code, it is the detainee’s responsibility as a citizen of Wizarding Britain to know his rights. They have no obligation to offer you what you’re entitled to, and they will exploit any perceived ignorance to the maximum extent of the law._

She had seemed… almost offended by this. He hadn’t responded, and he’d gotten the impression that she was nonplussed at his lack of outrage. But she had continued: _However, they are not allowed to deny you counsel, and you can avoid incriminating yourself or otherwise damaging your case by simply refusing to respond to their questioning and demanding to speak to your barrister._

Like in the Muggle movies, he’d thought, and it had been enough to provoke a sardonic chuckle out of him. Madam Lao had smiled slightly in response. _Yes, Master Snape, do laugh. The Dark Lord is dead and you were instrumental, indeed indispensable, to his defeat, if certain stories are to be believed. Cling to that — and do not waste my time and effort by abandoning hope._

She had marched out of the room with little fanfare, her white robes snapping to attention at her ankles and smartly refusing to billow. Snape had admired it.

And once she was gone, he was surprised to find that his bolstered mood did not immediately deflate.

Not that he had a toad’s chance in an apothecary of acquittal. He had no illusions about that. But he was used to fighting for higher stakes than his own life. He’d never expected to survive the final battle; it was only a swish and flick of fate that had seen him through. He had no plans for this afterlife; and as far as he was concerned, this was limbo. Or maybe purgatory. (He didn’t know enough about Roman Catholicism to polish that simile.) Borrowed time. Whatever the case, he planned to make use of it. Narcissa Malfoy’s letter had galvanized him.

Madam Lao had given him parchment and quill to dash off a reply to Narcissa’s letter. He’d written a perfunctory note:

 

> _Dear Madam Malfoy,_
> 
> _Thank you for your letter; ditto for Madam Lao’s services._
> 
> _I will cooperate to the fullest extent of my ability in the interest of Draco’s wellbeing. No need to secure me with an Unbreakable Vow, but if you plan to pay me a visit -- don’t bother until after the preliminary hearing, as Madam Lao has just informed me it’s highly unlikely that I’ll be allowed to entertain callers until then._
> 
> _Cheers,_
> 
> _S.S._

The prelim was scheduled for the day after next, and Snape had only vague memories of ancient history to guide his expectations.

The last time he’d been waiting trial, he’d been kept in an icy cell in Azkaban’s dungeons, beset hourly by the rotating guard of dementors. Every moment there, waking or sleeping, had been a nightmare -- the same one, over and over: Lily, like ash in his arms, all his fault, nothing he could do about it. That had made it rather difficult to focus on what was happening with his own trial. He knew the only reason he’d survived it was Dumbledore’s witness and sway over the Wizengamot.

But Dumbledore wasn’t here to help him out this time around. That was rather the point.

He’d stopped seeing Dumbledore’s frozen face in his dreams, at least. It had been replaced by the ghastly green specter of an impossibly huge snake. The first morning after he’d been incarcerated here, he’d awakened in the wee hours screaming bloody murder. Literally bloody -- the wounds in his throat, smeared with a centimeter-thick layer of virulent orange healing paste, had torn open with the force of his screams. A half-dozen healers and assistants had rushed in, wands waving before they even made it through the door, their magical energy pulsing toward him through the gloom to Petrify him, stop his bleeding, clean up the gouts of blood soaking into the bedding and streaking the floor. Not that he’d been aware of anything at the time except the lightshow and the pain screaming like air-raid sirens through his body. He’d almost drowned in his own blood.

After that night, the healers had put him into paralytic stasis. This was no less terrifying for him, but at least he couldn’t damage himself physically again. When he’d had enough presence of mind to feel paralysis-induced panic creeping over him like a lethifold, he could also muster his will to push back the fear. Occlumency didn’t work in the ward, unfortunately, but his nonmagical self-discipline was nothing to sniff at. Magical barriers or no, he was confident in his ability to protect his mind from basic physiological effects of trauma.

He just wished he could remember how he’d survived that bloody great snake.

Over the past several weeks, he’d pieced together what he could of the night of the battle. Those last moments continued to elude him, though. He remembered the Dark Lord pontificating, practically giddy with the nearness of his triumph. Then the snake, of course. And then, once the pair had left him to bleed out on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, _those three_ had appeared. Too late to do a fucking thing, of course, except collect those memories that he’d leaked, sieve-like, into a bottle that Granger had the presence of mind to press against his temple.

Those fucking memories.

They weren’t meant to do a thing except convince Potter that they were on the same side and get the idiot to take the final steps necessary. It had been a long shot. He supposed he should be grateful for Granger’s quick thinking -- how he hated to admit it, but if it hadn’t been for her intuition, Potter, the half-soaked hero, never would have put two and two together on his own.

That’s the only reason he used the last shred of his energy and magic to squeeze out those silvery strands of memory -- so Potter could finally finish the job for which Dumbledore had groomed him arguably for his entire life. He certainly never expected the memories to have such a profound effect on the Boy Who Lived. If he’d known Potter would broadcast those secrets on the battlefield, _taunting_ the Dark Lord with them _,_ he might have reconsidered his would-be final action.

And now, judging by Madame Lao’s comments, it seemed that they’d end up as evidence for his trial.

Snape didn’t know what was worse: lifelong incarceration or having his dearest, darkest secrets paraded before the entire bloody Wizengamot and the entire bloody Wizarding world to be scrutinized, picked apart, _judged_. Maybe they’d do him a favor and bring back the Dementor’s Kiss just for him.

_Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Snape._

He needed to get outside of his head. The problem was that his cell was too small for any physical activity strenuous enough to expend the amount of energy necessary to achieve the mind-clearing effect he desired. He scrubbed his hands over his face, through his swiftly-growing beard. Lying in bed in the dark again — the orderlies were apparently still intent on punishing him with darkness, as if he hadn’t built an entire life on that particular trick — the barriers of his mind seemed to actually expand, like the swiftly-retreating edges of the universe he’d read about in a Muggle periodical some years back. Here he lay in his cell; there, laughably far away, lay the life he’d once had the audacity to imagine for himself. There was more than a universe between the two.

Struck by the depth of the shadow between the idea and the reality, he felt hollowed out, as if he were floating, “shape without form, shade without color,” tethered by only a fragile tendril to the unseen confines of his cell. Waiting to be born, perhaps, into some bright, new place full of — what? Further wrath and heartbreak? He had occasionally given thought to the existence of an afterlife, but only extremely grudgingly. In his former life, he’d worked alongside ghosts for decades, watching how they stayed the same while he grew and began to age. He’d found that ghosts knew no more about the Great Beyond than he did, which was what their collective malingering boiled down to. He strongly suspected that the shade’s existence was all the afterlife there was. Clinging to life, they only prolonged their death.

Snape would not snivel before the end. He would not beg for mercy — he would not plead — he would not rend his spirit from his body in desperation to escape the grave.

Still, even as he swore these things to himself, a spark of bitter resentment flared, acrid as a striking match, in the dark of his thoughts. He’d spent his entire life fighting death in its myriad forms. He’d never had the luxury of making a habit of living; each day had been a battle that he’d survived only by force of will or strength of constitution. Nothing had ever been handed to him that made the road lighter. If the Dark Lord had come to him a few years later with his offers of instant glory and honor, he might have seen right through it.

 _Nothing good comes easily._ Dumbledore had told him this on one of his dark nights of the soul. _Nothing good comes easily._ Some days it grated on him, as he watched schoolchildren surrounded by true friends, as he saw colleagues pass him by for fellowships and research grants  he had no hope of winning, as he read about aurors accepting awards for their great service to Wizardkind. On those days, he abbreviated it to _Nothing good comes._

“Do not begrudge others their success,” Dumbledore advised him when he’d brought his complaint to his quasi-confessor. “And do not seek to do good for the glory of it, for the success is surely tainted by the reward.”

“Then _why_ do any good at all? Don’t tell me it’s for its own sake,” Snape had replied — unfairly, he admitted in hindsight — “since good has never been there for me.”

“Do it for me,” was the unflinching answer. “Or do it for _her._ Or do it not at all. But make your choice and stand by it.”

Now Dumbledore was as dead as she was, and Snape was weary of offering oblation to the dead, who were bottomless holes that took everything he had to give without offering anything in return. It was habit by now, this giving without expectation of getting, but he’d found habits to be terribly dangerous things in his line of work. It was partly why he’d never been comfortable doing things according to the book. Any book.

Maybe it was time to break a habit or two.

  


Night in the wizarding hospital was silent. She hadn’t been prepared for that. Television programmes, although infrequently watched in the Granger household, had established an unquestioned mental image of the hospital as a realm populated by machines that beeped and gasped as they monitored or maintained vitals. But there were no green and amber LED eyes winking at her in the darkness. She didn’t have the comfort or the distraction of a roommate as she had whenever she’d convalesced in the Hogwarts infirmary. She was instead left alone with her thoughts, her fears, and her empty wand-hand.

She had taken to wordless magic so swiftly — it was hard to believe it had been a year ago that she’d stood in Professor Snape’s Defense classroom across from Neville and blocked his Jelly-Legs Jinx while portraits of victims of various dark spells contorted in their frames all around them. Professor Snape appeared not to notice her success — as usual. She’d been used to it.

But she’d never been much good at _wandless_ magic. Things tended to go wrong in a big, loud way when she didn’t have a wand to act as a conduit for her magic. Long before she’d ever gotten her Hogwarts letter, the unexplained occurrences that had coincided with her bursts of strong feelings had led her to learn to regulate her emotions better than most ten-year-olds. In sixth year, her solo attempts at wandless magic had taken place in the Room of Requirement and had necessitated the use of several Aguamenti charms to put out the results.

But it was so dark in her hospital bed, and she felt very alone, and anyway, in her weakened state she reckoned she couldn’t do _much_ damage.

On the bedside table was a glass half-full of water, which she found with her fingertips. She drained it and then, holding it in her left hand, held the fingers of her right hand in the loosely-pursed Bartleby’s Position.

She reached deep inside herself for a moment, like casting a bucket down into a well. But she felt somehow _dry,_ like the well was much deeper than she remembered.

 _“Inflamari,_ ” she whispered over the glass.

Nothing happened.

She shook out her right hand and then tried again, less tentatively this time. _“Inflamari,”_ she incanted, but still there was no response, no bluebell flame springing up in the glass, no telltale tug at her center where her magic welled up inside her.

She tried several other hand positions: Romulus’ Blade, the Crook of Merlin, the Horns, the Inverted Horns. The most she could get was a sickly-looking fizzle of white that left her feeling nauseated and light-headed. After that, she slumped back into her pillow and tried not to cry tears of frustration.

When she was finished _not_ _crying_ , she drew several deep shuddering breaths and settled back to think. Somehow she wasn’t sleepy. Physically exhausted, perhaps, but her mind was alive and humming like a beehive.

She was beginning to contemplate the possibility that she _hadn’t_ misheard the healer when he said her magic was almost depleted.

Inwardly, she revolted violently against the notion. Healer St John was an utter troglodyte; what he’d said -- before Professor McGonagall had come sprinting in and bullied the man out of the room -- had seemed like nonsense made up to scare her. It seemed beyond the realm of possibility for her very magic, the thing that made her what she was, to have been damaged.

But she felt more alone than ever in the dark of the hospital room. Like some shadow had moved over her and she’d lost the warmth of the sun. Or like she was speaking to someone who wasn’t really listening. She felt bereft, and desperate. And the thing that had made her so self-sufficient, that had granted her some degree of security, was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half-soaked — stupid or slow-witted. Black Country dialect.
> 
> “Muggle periodical:” 1994. "Quarterly Journal of the Royal Astronomical Society"  
> http://adsabs.harvard.edu/full/1994QJRAS..35..177C
> 
> “Between idea and reality … falls the shadow” and “Shape without form, shade without color” - from T S Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.”
> 
> Inflamari is the incantation used in the first film when Hermione lights Snape’s cloak on fire.


End file.
